NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 27

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 27

It’s almost too dark to see when they arrive at the long, white-washed adobe. Lantern light gleams from its deep windows. Even the milky white mica in the window panes can’t block the yellow comfort of the lamps. Gerald feels a sudden jolt of joy, a sense of homecoming. Which is ridiculous. This house is not his home, nor does he have another to go to.

A short man, almost as wide as he is tall, steps from the shadowed portal. “El Joven!” he says jovially.

“De Baca,” Young answers. Gerald glances at him in surprise. Even Young isn’t usually this succinct.

“Luis Maria Cabeza de Baca at your service,” the portly man says with a formal little bow. Then he straightens and gives the Captain and his trappers a wide smile. “Come in! Come in! We’ve been expecting you!” The door behind him swings open and a woman appears. She’s almost as broad as he is. “My wife has prepared a meal,” he says.

She moves onto the porch. “It is not much,” she says apologetically. “Only tortillas and goat stew.”

“To not eat the beaver or the venison will be a great thing indeed,” Michel Robidoux says.

Ewing Young gestures toward the mules. “These first,” he says. “They need to be under cover.”

Cabeza de Baca nods. “Yes, of course,” he says happily. “Los mulos, they must be disburdened.” He turns toward the door. “Eduardo!”

A boy of perhaps ten appears. The man says something in Spanish, too low to hear, and the boy moves into the yard and toward the far end of the house.

“There are sheds there behind,” de Baca says. “Will that be sufficient for now?”

Ewing Young nods curtly and reins his horse to follow the boy. De Baca steps off the porch. “I will take el caballo, if you like,” he says. “You must be weary from your journey.”

“I’ll do it,” Young says, not looking at him.

“As you wish.” De Baca falls into step beside Young’s mount as the trappers cluck their animals into action. “Did you have a good hunt?”

“Good enough.”

“And now you are returned. There is much news of interest.” As they round the house, a low adobe building bulks out of the shadows. “But here is the shed. Is it sufficient?”

“For tonight. We’ll shift tomorrow if we need to.” Young dismounts and moves to the nearest pack mule. He begins unfastening its straps, something he normally leaves to the camp keepers. His men follow suit, working quickly to unload their goods into the dark shed. Then they turn the animals into the adjoining corral and move to the house.

Only when they’ve all eaten does Young begin to unwind. De Baca has talked solidly through the meal, complaining about the authorities in Santa Fe, bragging about the quality and quantity of his goat herd, grumbling about the pretensions of the Cochiti people on the north and the Santo Domingans on the south, Indians who think they can push good Spaniards off their own land. Apparently the government authorities are more apt to side with the Puebloans in the ongoing boundary dispute.

“The bastards won’t even stand up for their own!” he exclaims, slapping the table.

“They’re too busy trying to take advantage of us Americans,” Young agrees as he wipes his bowl with the last of his tortilla.

“More wine?” de Baca asks. He signals to his wife, who moves forward.

Young nods at her and looks across the table at de Baca. “You said there was news that will be of interest to me.”

The other man nods. “You know of Ira Emmons, the one who trades in Santa Fe?”

“Irish Emmons? What about him?”

“That Vicente Baca who calls himself the alcalde of Santa Fe confiscated the Irishman’s furs. He had one hundred eighteen pelts. Good ones from the Gila. Even though Emmons trapped under a license, Baca has taken the furs for himself.”

“Emmons had a license?”

“Well, it wasn’t his, precisely. He bought it from Manuel Sena. Pobre Sena, he says he didn’t know foreigners were now disallowed from the trapping. And that Baca, he believed him and let Sena go without a fine. But then he sold the Irishman’s furs. That Emmons is a fool. He told Baca there were other furs of his that he had cached, and now soldiers have been sent to the copper mines to collect them.”

“The copper mines? The ones south, there at Santa Rita?”

“Si, all the way south to Santa Rita.” The fat man shakes his head. “This administration will go to great lengths to steal another man’s property.”

Young’s face has suddenly become impassive. The fat man studies him with hooded eyes, then pushes his bowl toward the center of the table.

Young looks down the table at Michel Robidoux. “Didn’t your brother have a scrap with Governor Narbona last spring about that? Didn’t Narbona return Antoine’s furs and apologize?”

Robidoux shakes his head. “It was my brother François. He had over 600 pounds of fur. I tell you, he was most anxious!” He shrugs and rubs his right thumb and index finger together meaningfully. “But it was all settled peaceably. That Narbona is a sensible one.”

“He has become quite unsensible since news arrived that he is to be replaced,” de Baca says. “He is in fear of what Armijo will report that he has done.”

Young raises an eyebrow.

“While you were out, everything changed.” The fat man spreads his hands, palm upward. “Narbona, that more or less sensible man, is to be removed as el jefe politico—what you call el governor—and replaced with Manuel Armijo of Plaza de San Antonio de Belen. The Armijo who thinks he is next to el diós himself because his mother is of los Chavez.”

Gerald’s head swivels. Chavez? So the new Governor’s mother is related somehow to the Señor Chavez who hosted them beside the Rio del Norte while they waited for reinforcements from Taos? He shakes his head. Yet another example of the interrelationships of the people here.

“The Manuel Armijo without children,” de Baca’s wife sniffs from the corner. She moves forward, lifting a long-necked pottery jar. “More wine, señores?”

Young nods at her and turns back to her husband. “So now Narbona is confiscating furs regardless of license arrangements?” he asks. “Even the licenses that he approved?”

De Baca leans back with a satisfied air. The trapper captain has finally understood. “It is very bad, señor,” he says solemnly. “Very bad indeed.”

Now Young’s eyes are hooded. He doesn’t respond.

“The risk, it is much greater now,” de Baca continues. “Not only is Narbona of a different mind, but it is unclear what Armijo will do when he takes over. I may not be able to provide the protection to your furs that we originally discussed.”

A flash of amused irritation quirks Young’s lips. “I wouldn’t want to put you at risk,” he says calmly. He reaches for his cup of wine. “I’ll have to find someplace else to stash them.”

“Oh no, señor!” de Baca says. “It will be safer for them to remain here until you can transport them to Taos, where the politicos are more sensible.” He spreads his hands again. “It is just that the protection must be enhanced to ensure the packs are safe until you return.” He reaches out to poke at his empty bowl. “It will require more men and more money to ensure the silence of everyone involved.”

“More money,” Young says drily.

“Si, Don Joven,” de Baca says, giving the trapper the honor of Spanish status. “More money will be quite necessary if you are to protect the results of your labor from el arunscel, the tariff.”

Young turns his head, slowly looking around the table at his men, then at de Baca. “I will decide in the morning,” he says.

Anger flashes across the other man’s face, then is replaced with a smile that does not touch his eyes. “I agree,” he says. “Consider it well my friend, and I believe you will understand all that I have said. This new governor who is about to take control does not appreciate you americanos as I do.”

Young chuckles. He pushes back from the table, and Gerald and the others follow suit. “I bid you good night.”

Gerald wakes to the sound of red-winged blackbirds singing in the fields that lie beyond the house and the river. He smiles contentedly. He’s been dreaming of Suzanna Peabody, beside him on a path that lies along brimming Taos acequia ditches and greening fields.

Then he remembers last night’s dinner conversation. His mouth twists in distaste. People and their greed, their presuppositions, and their problems. How does Young know Cabeza de Baca is telling the truth about the confiscations? What makes both of them so determined to cheat the government of its rightful share? After all, the gathered furs are all from Spanish waters, as far as Gerald can tell. He remembers Young’s argument with the Mojave Chief and grins. Well, Indian waters.

But that’s a whole different issue. The Spanish control the country clear to the California coast, so they’re responsible for the Mojaves and the Apaches, too. Gerald chuckles. He suspects that the Indians would find that idea merely amusing.

He turns his thoughts back to the present situation. What will Young decide to do about de Baca’s demands?

Whatever the Captain has decided in the night, it seems to satisfy Cabeza de Baca. He and his wife are quite jovial at the morning meal, plying the trappers with food and liquor, and assuring Young that the furs will be guarded as if they were their own.

“Some o’ those are mine, ya know,” Milton Sublette puts in, but Ewing Young swings his head and asks, “You want to help with the payment?” and Sublette subsides.

Young orders the supplies and the few furs he’s taking in for tariff purposes to be redistributed among the mules, so they’re all carrying something. As the camp keepers are finishing this task, De Baca approaches Ignacio Sandoval, who’s tightening a cinch.

“I believe we are related through my wife,” de Baca says jovially.

Ignacio turns to the older man and lowers his eyes respectfully but does not speak.

“Your father is Felipe Sandoval of Socorro?” de Baca asks.

“Si, señor.”

“I saw your father in Santa Fe last week. He said he was searching for you, that you were to be in Taos but were not there.”

The younger man grimaces unhappily and the fat man laughs. “Ah, I see. You accompanied Don Joven without permission, did you not?” He grins and wags a finger in Ignacio’s face. “That was very bad of you! Very bad!” He claps the younger man’s shoulder. “But we will not tell tu papá, will we now?” He rubs his right thumb and index finger together. “You will owe me for this secret, will you not?” The fat man laughs again and moves away. “I will seek payment another time!” he laughs.

 Ignacio’s face twists in disgust. He turns back to the mule and yanks the cinch tighter.

De Baca laughs again and continues toward the house, nodding to Gerald as he passes.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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