NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 11

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 11

Gerald steps out of the trader’s store and pauses in the late February sunlight, waiting while Old Bill seals his own fur-trading transaction with a drink or two. He looks up at the sky appreciatively. It’s deep blue and holds only a handful of small, fluffy white clouds. The sun catches the flecks of mica on the Plaza’s adobe walls. The glitter reflects his mood. There’s $332 dollars and fifteen cents in his money belt, more than he’s ever possessed.

His hand moves unconsciously toward the belt and a passing young woman with long black hair, short skirts, and a low cut blouse looks flirtatiously into his face. Gerald smiles slightly and shakes his head. Is it that apparent? But then, any trapper just back from the mountains and standing outside a trader’s store is likely to have money to spend.

Old Bill bends his lanky frame through the low wooden door frame and straightens beside Gerald. “Ah, it’s a wonderful thing, ain’t it?” he asks. “Those furry banknotes.” His breath smells of whiskey. Another young woman passes, this one flicking her skirts around her knees, and Williams’ eyes follow her appreciatively. “I think I’ll get me a drink and a señorita,” he says. He glances at Gerald as he claps his hat on his head. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join me.”

“Perhaps for the drink,” Gerald says. “But not for the señorita.”

“Ah, what a wondrously righteous thing is young love,” Williams says. “You keepin’ yourself pure for Miz Peabody, are you?”

Gerald scowls and Old Bill raises a hand. “That’s that there Taos Lightning loosening my tongue a might, that’s all that is,” he says apologetically. “I’ll take myself off now, before I say something we both find regretful.”

He grins at Gerald mischievously and Gerald smiles back in spite of himself. He watches the long-legged trapper lurch across the plaza to the nearest taberna and considers Williams’ remark. It isn’t so much that Gerald is keeping himself pure for Suzanna Peabody. After all, he has no claim on her affections. And the fact of his black heritage weighs on him, makes him reluctant to put himself forward. He can’t bring himself to even think how her face might change in the instant she knows the truth about him.

But he’s never met another girl even remotely like her. And why would he chase after other girls when there’s someone like her in the world? He can’t imagine being attracted to anyone else. Not that there’s much hope for him. He doesn’t even know her father well enough to approach their house on his own. He certainly doesn’t have the impudence to take her a gift. Her father’s eyes darkened at the idea of potatoes. Gerald can’t imagine what he would say to jewelry.

He turns away from the plaza and spends the next three days restlessly wandering the village or meandering down to the still-empty blacksmith shop in Ranchos to confirm that his father hasn’t returned. There’s nothing for him here. He’s wasting his time. He should locate someone else to trap with in the fall.

Or go to Santa Fe and try for a place on a mule train returning to Missouri. He has enough now for a small farm of his own there, if he’s careful. If prices haven’t risen with the onslaught of farmers and slaves from the southern states that had begun well before he left.

But he feels only a sinking sensation in his stomach when he thinks of Missouri and he knows he won’t return. After the freedom of movement he’s experienced here, the acceptance, he can’t imagine returning to an American slave state.

What he will do is less certain. All he knows is that he continues to find himself wandering Taos’ plaza and few streets, especially the small lane where he first glimpsed Suzanna Peabody.

He sees little of Old Bill, who seems to be trying to spend all of his season’s earnings in the plaza tabernas. Other trappers have also drifted back into town and several, including Enoch Jones, are making themselves at home in the saloons.

Gerald himself visits the plaza at least once a day, walking in from his campsite beside Ewing Young’s pasture north of town. He tells himself he needs provisions and that it’s best to buy them fresh daily, but this task somehow takes up most of each day, and while he’s about it, his eyes tend to stray toward any girl taller and slimmer than usual.

On the fourth day, he’s just purchased a small clutch of eggs and a few still-warm tortillas when voices erupt in front of a saloon on the opposite side of the square.

“You devil! You pig! Get your filthy hands off of me! How dare you accost me!” The young woman’s shawl has slipped off her dark head and the full force of her glare is focused on Enoch Jones, whose hands are reaching for her shoulders.

She slaps at him and her palm connects with his cheek. He grabs her upper arm and she yanks away and faces him, hands on solid hips, large black eyes blazing. “You sorry excuse for a human being! You four footed beast! Eres más mala que Judas! You are more evil than Judas!”

Jones laughs and lunges at her again. He grabs her shoulders, one in each dirty hand. “Just one little kiss!”

The girl twists, trying to get away, but his face darkens and he jerks her toward him. As she turns her face from his slobbering mouth, Gerald moves forward, eggs and tortillas still in his hands.

Then a long red-headed form erupts from the taberna door and Old Bill has Enoch Jones by the scuff of the neck. “Let her go,” the trapper growls.

Jones’ hands fall away from the Spanish girl’s arms. “I was jus’ askin’ fer a kiss,” he says.

“I am not one of your putas!” the girl blazes. “How dare you!” She backs away, still glaring, then nods at Williams. “I thank you, Mr. Williams,” she says. She looks him up and down as she straightens her shawl. “Though I would prefer to have met you without so much liquor on your breath.”

Williams releases Jones from his grip and draws himself up to his full lanky height. “I apologize for inconveniencing you, Señorita Encarnación,” he says with drunken dignity. He turns back to the taberna door.

Jones snickers. “Yeah, Carny,” he says. “Make him apologize. Make ’im grovel fer yer favors.”

She looks at him contemptuously. “Filthy pig!”

Jones scowls. “You think yer so high ’n mighty in Peabody’s kitchen, but yer just a Mexican slut like the rest of ’em.” He waves his arm, encompassing the plaza and the silent, brown-faced men and women watching. “Yer all a bunch o’ greasy Mexicans too lazy t’ do anything but take the money o’ anyone man enough to winter in th’ mountains an’ take what’s rightfully ours.”

“Yours?” Jeremiah Peabody strides into the plaza, his mouth a thin angry line above the neat black chin beard. He pauses at Encarnación’s side and looks down at her. “Are you quite all right?”

She nods and raises her shawl to cover her now-disheveled black head. Peabody turns to Enoch Jones, his eyes steely. “I will thank you to leave the members of my household in peace.”

Jones scowls but doesn’t respond. Williams reappears in the taberna doorway and Peabody looks him up and down. “And when you have recovered from your drunk, I will be pleased to see you once again under my roof.” He turns away. “And now, gentlemen, I will leave you to your recreations.”

Then Peabody catches sight of Gerald, halfway across the square and still holding his eggs and tortillas. Peabody’s face softens. He says something to Encarnación, pats her on the arm, then crosses the plaza toward Gerald. “Mr. Locke, you appear to be a man who knows how to provision himself,” he says. He smiles. “If you would care to visit us, I’m sure Encarnación will be happy to provide you with even fresher tortías. And my daughter would be happy to make your further acquaintance.” He touches his finger to his hat and moves away as Gerald nods dumbly.

Movement returns to the plaza as the vendors, marketers, and Encarnación begin once again to go about their business. She smiles slightly as she passes Gerald, and drops him a small curtsy. “Señor,” she says pleasantly.

Gerald, still processing Jeremiah Peabody’s words, can only nod. ‘My daughter would be happy to make your further acquaintance.’ Gerald tamps down the surge of delight and the smile on his face. The man is merely being polite. There’s no more to the invitation than that.

He stalls for two days, unwilling to believe Peabody is serious. But then they meet again, again on the plaza. This time, the New Englander is accompanied by Suzanna herself, her hands tucked into his elbow, her eyes tight with irritation. The eyes relax a little when they meet Gerald’s. She glances at her father and releases his arm.

“Mr. Locke,” Jeremiah says. “How fortunate to meet you here.” He glances down at Suzanna, who gives him a small nod, then returns his gaze to Gerald. “I hope you will join us this afternoon for tea. I believe we will be quite alone, so we can have a nice chat.”

Quite alone? The phrase sends a shiver of alarm through Gerald’s spine, but the look Suzanna gives him is so friendly, he finds himself smiling an acceptance to her father’s invitation.

“About three then?” Peabody asks. A smile flashes across his thin face. “Or have you acclimated so well to Mexican time that we must be more general than that? Mid-afternoon?”

Gerald laughs. “No, I haven’t adjusted that thoroughly,” he says. “Three o’clock, then.”

He arrives at the Peabody’s door a few minutes before three and loiters outside the gate, not wanting to enter before his time. Besides, his boots are muddy. As he scrapes them against the edge of a nearby rock, the young woman Enoch Jones accosted in the plaza appears in the gateway. She puts her hands on her sturdy hips.

“The boots, they are dirty?” she asks.

He nods and gestures at the street. “The roads have become muddy with the spring rains.”

“Sí, but the rains have also watered Señorita Peabody’s plants,” she says. She smiles at him. “I am called Encarnación Mora. I believe you are Señor Gerald Locke.”

“Yes ma’am.” He pulls his hat from his head. “I am Gerald Locke Jr.” He bows a little, not sure if he should offer his hand, and she chuckles.

“I am not a señorita, sir,” she says. “I am only the cook.”

“And a quite accomplished one,” says an amused voice from behind her. “She makes up for my shortcomings.” Suzanna appears at the shorter and plumper woman’s elbow. “Welcome again to our home, Mr. Locke.” She dips him a small curtsy.

“Please, call me Gerald.” He moves forward, his hand out, and she takes it with a smile.

She looks into his eyes and something moves within him. It’s as if his heart has adjusted itself to a different rhythm. “And I am Suzanna,” she says.

“Yes,” he says. “Suzanna.” Then feels like a fool.

But she only smiles, turns, and leads the way across the courtyard, between the two small garden beds, and into the house.

Her father is in the parlor, reading beside the fire, and truly alone. Suzanna enters ahead of Gerald, then immediately turns and disappears back into the hallway. Anxiety rises in Gerald’s chest. But then the older man puts down his book, smiles, rises, gestures Gerald into the chair on the other side of the fire, and sits down again. “I’ve been re-reading Susanna Rowson’s novel Charlotte,” he says.

He waves at the cloth-bound book on the table beside his chair as Suzanna comes in with a tray piled with sandwiches. Her father stands again, takes the tray, and sets it on a table in the corner. “Do you know the book?” he asks Gerald.

Suzanna shakes her head at him and smiles at Gerald. “He reads more novels than I do,” she says. “I prefer Shakespeare or botanical texts.” She perches herself on the brightly cushioned and painted wooden chest opposite him as Encarnación carries in a tray with a teapot and three cups.

Gerald grins. “I prefer Shakespeare, myself.” He turns to Jeremiah Peabody. “Although I have not read Miss Rowson, so perhaps ‘prefer’ is too strong a term.”

Peabody chuckles. “You are a diplomat! But Suzanna is teasing me. She knows I enjoy Shakespeare as much as she does.”

“Though I think you prefer your Latin authors above all else,” she says. She moves to the table and begins preparing the tea.

“My daughter can read Latin as well as I can,” Jeremiah Peabody tells Gerald, pride touching his voice.

Gerald looks at Suzanna. “I envy you,” he says. “My education never extended that far.”

Suzanna hands him a cup of tea. “Oh, I forgot,” she says. “Do you take milk or sugar?” She wrinkles her forehead in a self-deprecatory smile. “Somehow I just assumed you take your tea black.”

“Actually, I do,” he says. Their eyes lock for just a moment, then she moves hastily away to prepare her father’s cup.

Gerald turns to Jeremiah Peabody. “I’m afraid I learned to read at my mother’s knee,” he says apologetically. “I had no opportunity for a formal education.”

“You have the speech and carriage of an educated man.”

“Speaking correctly was important to both my parents.” He looks into his teacup and smiles. “My mother was something of a stickler for proper manners.” He looks up. “As was my father, but he wasn’t quite so insistent.” He chuckles and shakes her head. “My mother was passionate about everything she did.”

“They are both deceased?” Jeremiah Peabody looks into Gerald’s face as if he wants to read his very soul.

Gerald lifts his chin slightly, holds his voice steady. He will not lie to any man. And he will not be ashamed, no matter the outcome. “My mother died when I is still a child,” he says calmly. “My father— My father is here in the Mountain West. I don’t know where or with whom.”

“You came here to find him?”

Gerald nods, a slight trace of sorrow in his eyes.

“Well, give it time,” Suzanna says. “Sooner or later all the mountain men and traders pass through Don Fernando de Taos. It’s a kind of magnet, drawing them. Even Major Sibley was here this winter, when by all rights he ought to have been in Santa Fe speaking with the Governor.”

“He had business to attend to here and he believes our air to be more salubrious than that at Santa Fe,” her father says drily. He turns to Gerald. “I came here myself to escape the confines of the States and have not had reason to return.” He smiles at Suzanna. “Or perhaps I should say I found a reason to stay.”

She smiles back at him affectionately, then turns to Gerald. “A sandwich?” she asks. “I think Encarnación’s bread is the only norte americano bread in nuevomexico.”

“Yes, please,” he says. He turns to her father. “I have been trying to pick up a little Spanish. When you first arrived here, did you find the language a difficult barrier?”

The talk moves on then, to language, to Shakespeare, to Suzanna’s plants and her plans for her spring garden beds. Gerald finds himself relaxing in spite of the slight formality of the New England man’s diction and bearing. He clearly cares deeply for his daughter and she clearly respects and loves him, although she feels no obligation to bow before his opinions.

Finally, the conversation turns to Gerald’s recent trapping expedition with Old Bill.

“And Mr. Williams has again debased himself with drink.” Suzanna shakes her head. “It’s such a shame that he carries on in that way. He’s such a— A nice man when he’s sober.”

“For a moment I thought you were going to call him a gentleman,” her father teases.

“Well, he can behave in a gentlemanly way when he wishes to,” she says tartly. “Though all of that seems to disappear when he’s been imbibing.”

“Even when he’s been drinking he doesn’t quite forget himself,” Gerald says. “Your Encarnación can attest to that.”

They look at him, startled.

“She didn’t tell you?” Gerald frowns, uncertain. “The interchange with Enoch Jones?”

“Father entered the plaza just as that ended,” Suzanna says. She chuckles. “Chonita said a good deal about her interaction with Jones, but most of it was not repeatable. At least, not by me.” She hesitates, then gives Gerald a slight frown. “She said nothing about Mr. Williams.”

Briefly, Gerald tells them what happened before Jeremiah arrived in the plaza.

“The entire incident demonstrates the goodness of William’s heart,” Jeremiah says.

“And the filthiness of liquor, and the pain and sorrow it causes!” Suzanna says. She turns and begins rattling the tea things on the table beside her, her black eyes snapping. “That Enoch Jones is a disgusting man made even more disgusting by drink! Sometimes I think trapping is the very essence of evil. The men endure incredible deprivation to accumulate furs in order to satisfy the vanity of folks back in the States and in Europe, people who have no inkling how their luxuries are obtained.”

She glares at her father. “Then when the trappers come out of the wilderness and exchange their plews for gold, they’re like springs wound too tightly for too long and they go on a binge fueled by Taos Lightning. Aguardiente indeed! Water of fire? Water of poison! They fling away a season’s hard earnings in a matter of days and are left with nothing to show for the misery they’ve endured!”

She flounces a little in her chair, as if the irritation she feels is too much to hold in, and turns to Gerald. “It’s just nonsensical!”

Jeremiah grins at Gerald. “I suppose you have no idea what her opinion is about such matters,” he says drily.

Eyes still bright with anger, Suzanna stands and paces to the window. She peers out. “I wish I could actually see through these selenite panes,” she grumbles. “The light may come in, but I can’t see out.”

She turns back to the men. “And the impact the trappers’ nonsense has on the women in this town is just unconscionable,” she says. “They wait all winter for men who don’t actually return when they return. They’re too busy carousing. Most of them have completely forgotten the promises they made, even to women who have born them children. Instead, they squander their money on women of the street, some of whom have sunk to that condition as a result of mistreatment by other men who’ve wandered into the mountains and never returned.”

She scowls at her father again. “I swear, this town would be better off without hunting and trapping, without the furry banknotes that Old Bill Williams is always lauding. The income it brings is more of a curse than a blessing.”

Gerald studies her as she stands there, her tall gently curved figure in its old-fashioned narrow gown silhouetted against the dim light from the mica-paned window. “There are some men who are able to endure the discomfort of the wilderness, obtain their financial reward, and yet not succumb to the temptation to squander their wealth when they return,” he says mildly.

Suzanna looks down at her hands and crosses the room back to her seat by the table. Gerald turns to her father. “Not that I would call what I obtained on this expedition true wealth,” he says ruefully. “But it’s certainly more than I’ve been able to accumulate in the past.”

Jeremiah Peabody takes his pipe from the small table beside his chair and begins filling it with tobacco. “Will you return to the wilderness?”

Gerald nods. “I think so. I’d like to gather enough of a nest egg to set myself up with a farm.”

“A farm?” Suzanna’s voice is calmer now. She leans toward him. “What would you raise?”

“I know a little about wheat,” Gerald tells her. “And cattle always seem to bring a good profit, if you can over-winter them safely. My daddy is a blacksmith, so I know enough to do most repairs myself.”

When Gerald turns his head, Jeremiah Peabody is studying his face, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Your father’s a blacksmith?”

Gerald nods. Has he said too much? His chin lifts a little. He won’t deny who he is, even if it means losing this girl. Not that he has this girl. “Yes,” he says. Best to just leave it at that.

Peabody nods and leans into his pipe, lighting it.

“You would only grow wheat?” Suzanna asks. “What about corn and potatoes and peas?”

“Those also, perhaps,” Gerald says. “That reminds me, have you planted the potatoes Charles Beaubien brought you?”

“It’s too early to plant them just yet,” she says. “And I’ll need more space than what’s available in the courtyard.” She glances at her father. “I’m trying to find a small plot outside the village that I can rent.”

Gerald feels his muscles relax as they plunge into a discussion of site requirements and potato spacing, as well as the best types of fertilizer and what might be available here. Jeremiah Peabody returns to his book, and the rest of the room recedes until there’s nothing but the subject at hand and the spark in Suzanna’s intelligent black eyes.

Finally, the light beyond the window’s small panes dims so much that even Gerald becomes aware that he’s outstayed his time, and he tears himself away. He moves briskly through the dusk toward his campsite, his spine energized by conversation and hope. What a girl. What eyes, what smooth hair, what enthusiasms. He smiles. The intensity of her opinions is something else again. He spins on his heel and faces the village, its adobe walls glowing in the light from the setting spring sun.

What he would give for the right to return to that adobe house and its courtyard, to continue talking to the girl with the fiery eyes and strong opinions. To sit in the parlor with her father and watch her hands move over the tea things. To tell her that there are men in this world who want nothing more than a woman to return to. A woman like her.

Gerald shakes his head, straightens his shoulders, turns, and heads himself firmly toward the edge of Ewing Young’s pasture.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 10

There are no beaver in the valley itself, so the men and mules move steadily through the ponderosas and occasional cluster of white-barked aspen that close in at the southern end. The land tilts up, then down again, and the trappers are once more in beaver country. Their pace slows as they trap steadily south over the next few weeks, through a rich grassland that contains a cluster of small lakes, then down Coyote Creek to the edge of another, smaller, snow-bright valley. In its center, adobe houses huddle together at the edge of a narrow iced-over river.

“Saint Gertrude’s,” Williams says. “It ain’t worth much. They don’t even have a taberna.” He turns and looks at the pack mules, now loaded with a substantial amount of furs. “No place to sell these furry bank notes, either. Or to resupply. Which is too bad, because that coffee supply is righteously low.”

Gerald nods. He feels an unexpected stab of disappointment. It would be good to see other faces, acknowledge the presence of other beings. He doesn’t consider himself a particularly social person, but he finds himself suddenly wishing for an adobe casa to sit in, a hot drink from the hands of a pleasant girl.

Suzanna Peabody’s face, dark eyes looking directly into his, comes to mind and he flinches away from it. He has no right to such thoughts. He flicks his mule’s lead rope and follows Old Bill as he circles the village and its snow-covered fields.

They head west, following the river Williams calls the Mora upstream into yet more mountains. They work their way north and west, halting wherever a beaver lodge bulks from the snow-covered ice or where clusters of willow have been clipped back by sharp teeth. Then, after a day or two setting traps in bone-chilling water, they move on, heading further into the hills as the snow deepens and the icy cold sharpens further.

As the year turns, Gerald, who had initially welcomed the adventure of it all, the opportunity to learn a new skill, begins to feel the drudgery of trapping. His experience has narrowed to cold water, half-frozen dead beaver, cold air, and cold bedding.

And Old Bill’s continuous string of advice and opinion. But at least Williams has dropped the teasing about Suzanna Peabody. There is that to be grateful for. As Gerald and the mule trudge up yet another gully behind Williams’ pack mule, he tries to talk himself into some kind of positive mood, but at this point all he really wants is to return to Taos and the warmth of the Peabody parlor.

On the slope above, a mountain lion coughs menacingly and Gerald snaps back to his surroundings. Daydreaming is a good way to discover that the wilderness isn’t as boring as it might seem. He clucks at his mule and quickens his step so he’s close enough to Williams’ mule to hear the low monotone of Williams’ running commentary.

~ ~ ~ ~

They camp that night in yet another narrow mountain defile smothered in two feet of early February snow. Heavy gray clouds block the sky and promise more snow in the night. The lower branches of the aspen thickets on the slopes above have been gnawed raw by hungry deer and elk. Strangely, the snow-laden alder and rose bushes beside the iced-over stream don’t appear to have been browsed. The only explanation is the presence of wolves or mountain lion stalking the few clearings near the stream. The browsers feel safer among the trees.

Williams and Gerald pull the packs from their mules, lash them into the protection of a nearby pine, then cut thin aspen branches for the animals and create a feed pile. The mules come eagerly to investigate.

“Anyone passing through’s gonna know we were here,” Old Bill says ruefully. “Not that it’s likely anyone’ll be passin’ through.” He shakes his head. “Only americanos like us are crazy enough to be out in this kind of weather. The Injuns have enough sense to stay in their lodges this time of year. And the mexicanos ain’t no fools, neither.” He looks up at the thick dark-gray clouds in the narrow bit of visible sky. “It don’t matter much what we leave behind us, anyhow. With that snow coming in, by noon tomorrow this feeding pile will be just another white mound of windfall.”

Gerald nods without really listening, moves to add more wood to the fire, then hunkers down beside it and pulls his wool blanket tighter around his shoulders. He’s too cold to care whether anyone knows they’re here. They’ve been wandering the mountains for weeks now and have seen little sign of other humans. The only person they’ve spoken to is Stands Alone, the Ute who thinks the black valley belongs to him. This whole expedition is beginning to seem rather pointless.

Gerald grimaces. He knows he’s being uncharitable, but they haven’t collected any beaver in a week, and the cold and snow is becoming monotonous. But he isn’t the one leading this expedition, so he doesn’t have much say in what they do. Maybe Williams knows something he doesn’t and there’s a reason they’re still wandering these frozen streams.

Old Bill joins him by the fire and huddles into his own blanket. “I sure do wish I had me some coffee,” he says. “Or some Taos lightning. Yes siree, some liquor would feel righteously fine right about now.” He shakes his head and his long red braids, frosted with tiny white flakes, glint in the firelight. “Snow melt water’ll warm you a mite, but something with a kick in it would go a lot farther. As long as there wasn’t enough of it to create a temptation to foolishness.” He chuckles. “I ever tell you about the time me and Old Pete got to drinking up on the Platte and that band of Crow found us?”

Gerald lifts his eyes from the flames. He hasn’t heard the story, but he doesn’t want to. “Yes,” he says.

Williams studies the younger man. His lips twitch, then he glances at the packs strung up in the pine. “I’d say we’ve accumulated a respectable amount of pelts for one season’s worth of work,” he says. “And it’s clear to me that the beaver up here are peterin’ out. We ain’t seen action for going on a week now, and the streams are gettin’ narrower and their ice is growin’ thicker. I’d say it’s about time to cash in our chips.”

Gerald glances up from the flames.

“Yes sir, I’m thinking it’s about time we headed back to the land of the living.” Old Bill glances up at the snow-encrusted slopes on either side of the campsite. “I’ve got a notion that if we head due west and a little north from here, we’ll get ourselves into Taos in pretty short order.” He shakes his head. “I’m getting powerful thirsty for a little inside warmth and some whisky.”

Gerald rouses himself. “Do we have enough furs to make it worthwhile?”

“I calculate we’ve got enough to get you set up real good for the next go-round, with a little something extra to buy a certain girl a trinket or two.” Williams grins at him.

“I’m looking for more than the next go ‘round and a trinket or two,” Gerald says. “I want enough for land and a home.” He glances at the other man, then returns his gaze to the flames. “As much as I appreciate the skills I’ve learned from you, I’m not sure trapping is something I want to do for the rest of my life.”

Williams nods. “Some like it, some don’t,” he says. “But you’ve got to start somewhere.” He shrugs. “And to learn when to pack it home. There’s no point in hangin’ on when the beaver ain’t biting. By my way of thinking it’s time we hightailed it on back to Taos.”

Gerald nods, trying to look disappointed, and rubs his chin. “So it’s time to pack it in?”

“For the time bein’.” Williams lifts a stick from the fire and pushes the ash at its edges closer to the flames, banking their warmth. “We’ll still be getting in before the rest of them, so you’ll have a good chance of getting to know Miz Suzanna a little better before the competition arrives.” He wraps himself more securely in the blanket, lays himself down next to the log he’s been sitting on, and winks at Gerald before he covers his face and goes to sleep.

Gerald grins in spite of himself, then shakes his head, and stares into the fire. Williams seems to think he has a chance with Suzanna Peabody. If only it were true and not the dream he knows it to be. A dream as likely to turn into reality as the smoke from the fire is likely to coalesce once again into sweet smelling pine.

But there’s no time for dreaming the next morning. Gerald wakes to a sharp intake of breath from Williams’ blankets and sits up abruptly. It’s still dark, the heft of it just starting to lighten as dawn filters through the clouds. But it isn’t the light that causes the hair on Gerald’s neck to prickle. There’s something different in the air. A smell? A movement? Something dangerous.

“Act natural,” Old Bill hisses. “But be quick. Something’s circlin’ us. More than one.” He’s out of his blankets now, rolling them efficiently into a tight tube. “Nah, don’t turn your head. Act natural, dammit!” Just beyond the clearing, a mule stomps anxiously and Williams responds with an encouraging cluck.

Gerald reaches for his boots. “What is it?”

“Apache, I reckon.” Williams lifts his pack and moves toward the mules.

Gerald scrambles to gather his gear, trying to move swiftly but nonchalantly in the darkness, as if he and Williams pack at this speed every morning. He glances at the snow-laden trees on the slopes above. He can see nothing, yet there’s a definite menace in the air. As if the shadows have shadows. He carries his pack to the mule, then returns for the food bundle. As he reaches up to unfasten it from the pine, dead wood slaps rock behind him.

Gerald whirls, knife half out of his belt, but it’s only Williams, kicking the fire apart to ensure that the coals from last night’s fire won’t re-ignite. It doesn’t seem likely, given the cold and the snow. But this is a precaution every mountain man takes, no matter the weather conditions. You just never know.

And taking care of the fire is part of the ritual of acting naturally, Gerald reflects ruefully as he slips the food pack from the pine and carries it to the mules.

Old Bill follows him. “Ready?” he asks as he reaches for his mule’s halter rope.

Gerald lifts his rifle from its scabbard. “All set.”

“That thing primed?”

“Ready to go.”

In the time he’s known Old Bill, the man has never used such short sentences, Gerald reflects as they move out, following the stream. Or been so alert: spine straight, head up, eyes scanning the way ahead as he maneuvers through the trees. The slope on the other side of the stream is steep here, almost straight up, and when a dark shape emerges between the pines above them, Williams’ mule rears back and screams in terror.

Williams drops the lead rope and fires, the shot echoing from the canyon walls. Then there’s a rustle behind Gerald and he whirls, dropping his mule’s rope and lifting his gun in one swift motion. As the muzzle roars, another sound rises, a wild scream that pierces Gerald’s ears and sends the mules crashing upstream through the brush. The scream comes again, closer this time, and everything in the forest seems to freeze in response.

Williams is half crouched, his gun ready, making a full, cautious circle.

The early sunlight has pushed through the clouds. It fingers the tops of the pines, confusing the shadows below. Gerald blinks, and stares up the slope.

Though he knows he’s seen at least two shapes, apparently human, and believes Williams’ gun, at least, found its target, there’s no sign of anyone among the trees on either side.

Old Bill straightens and scowls. “Hell and damnation!” he says. “Those Injuns were aiming to scare off the mules, not hit us! The damn scoundrels are after our plews!” He turns to peer upstream. “All we can hope is that those animals are smart enough to keep running and get away from them, whole and all.”

He stalks away, to the edge of the frozen creek, and begins forcing his way through the brush, following the mules’ trail. “Apaches,” he says in disgust. “I should of known it was too good to last,” he grumbles. “I might of known they were hanging around, waitin’ on us to finish up and put together a righteously fat pack or two before they bothered to sweep in and steal everything we had.” He snorts. “Well, we’ll just see about that.”

He stomps on for a full mile, pushing violently through the underbrush, making no effort at silence. Gerald follows close behind, a sharp eye on the slopes overhead.

Then Old Bill stops abruptly at the edge of a break in the bushes and scratches his matted red head.

“Well, what do you want to know about that?” he says softly. His voice rises, all of its anger gone. “Now that’s just something you’ve got to see with your own eyes to righteously believe it done happened.”

Behind him, Gerald frowns. He can see nothing but William’s buckskin-clad back and fuzzy red braids. There are twigs in the braids, where they’ve been snagged by the brush. Then there’s a huffing sound and the click of shod hoof on rock.

Williams moves slowly forward. “Here now, you jennie, you,” he says soothingly. “That’s a good and a right righteous mule. How you doing, now, huh? Did you get a little roughed up there, or did you manage to outrun those damn Apaches and that screaming old catamount, too? That screeching got you in a grand righteous panic, now didn’t it?”

He moves slowly toward the mule, still talking, his hand out. The mule backs away, eyes rolling. “There now, it all ain’t so bad is it?” Old Bill asks. “And you’ve done proved yourself a right clever mule, too. You took off through that brush and left us all to the mountain lion, now didn’t you? And that hellacious old catamount scared those Apache so bad they didn’t follow you after all.” He shakes his head. “There’s somethin’ to be said for Apaches believin’ those lions are devils.” His hand touches the mule’s halter rope and he gently reels her in. “Now let’s just take a look at that there pack and see what kind of shape it’s got in.”

He edges around her. “Not bad, not bad at all.” He nods at Gerald. “It looks like my bedroll’s gone, but the plews are all right.” He pats the mule’s neck encouragingly. “Now all we’ve got to do is find your partner in crime. You were smart enough to both break the same way and I can tell you I truly appreciate that.”

He turns to Gerald. “We’ll head on upstream and see if yours—”

Then the mule’s head lifts toward the stream. The willows rustle and the men brace themselves. Their spent rifles lift, then drop as Gerald’s mule appears.

Her pack hangs to one side, and Gerald’s rifle scabbard dangles precariously under her belly, but everything is still attached and the mule herself is unscratched. She moves into the tiny clearing and nuzzles at Gerald impatiently, as if asking him to straighten her load.

The men chuckle and get to work, checking the loads and tightening straps. They’ve lost a skillet and Williams’ bedroll, and Gerald’s rifle scabbard is badly scratched, but the beaver pelts have come through without damage.

“Now this here’s quite a sight,” Old Bill gloats. “I’d never have thought I’d be so damnably glad to have such a righteously skittish pack animal as this one. Or hear a catamount scream just when that one did. Yes siree, it makes you want to believe in a gracious almighty that takes personal care of you, don’t it?”

Gerald, tightening the straps around the food pack, grins to himself. They are definitely out of danger. Williams has fully regained his loquacity.

~ ~ ~ ~

They stop at the top of the ridge above the hillside road that will take them north to Taos and simply stand there, absorbing the view. On their right, the mountain slopes are black against a monotonously white sky, as if all color has been wiped from the world. But to their left, a broad swath of golden-brown grassland sweeps west and north from the base of the hill. The sky is a clear blue behind the rapidly thinning haze of clouds. Brown cattle, white sheep, and black and white goats dot the fields. There’s no snow in sight.

Gerald’s eyes linger on the animals, then move farther west. He blinks and looks again. He’s seen it before, but not from this angle, and the difference is truly breathtaking. A mile-wide gash bisects the flat Taos plain, north to south. It drops abruptly from the green pastures and plunges straight down, between reddish-brown rock walls. There’s a narrow glint of water far below. Gerald shakes his head at the wonder of it.

“Rio del Norte’s gorge looks diff’rent from this direction, don’t it?” Williams asks. “It’s a righteously grand sight, even if it ain’t got no beaver in it.” He shakes his head. “There ain’t nothing but a few river otter in that there river canyon. There used to be, but not now. This section’s no use for hunting at all, now.” He turns and flicks his mule’s lead. “But we ain’t got time for sightseeing anyhow. The way that sun’s moving, we’re gonna have to make some steady tracks if we want to get to Taos before dark.”

They move down the rocky slope to the road, Old Bill and his mule taking the lead. Then the red-headed trapper stops abruptly. “God damn him to hell and perdition!” he mutters. He raises his hand in a half-hearted greeting.

Gerald cranes his neck. A man with a stiff back and a military-looking hat rides a large black stallion up the hill toward them. Two men on shorter horses hang deferentially behind.

The man in the hat reins to a stop in front of Bill. His shoulder-length auburn hair glints in the afternoon sun and the tip of his long hatchet-sharp nose is red from the cold. “Mr. Williams,” he says formally. “You’ve returned earlier than I expected.” There’s an edge of disapproval in his voice, as if the trapper has failed to live up to some unspoken agreement.

“It appears that I did at that, Señor Sibley,” Williams says. He grins and gestures toward the pack mules. “We got so many plews we done run out of animals to carry ’em!” He chuckles. “But don’t go tellin’ the customs official I said so.”

Sibley nods absently. His eyes sweep over Gerald and turn back to Williams. “I am to Santa Fe to meet with the Governor,” he says. “I will then proceed to Chihuahua to consult with the officials there regarding the road survey.” His stallion sidesteps, away from Williams’ mule, and Sibley reins him in impatiently. “I presume you are to Taos.”

“It would appear so,” Old Bill says drily.

Sibley nods. “I will see you when I return.” It’s more of a command than a polite goodbye and Sibley doesn’t wait for an answer. He spurs his mount forward and his companions follow silently, not making eye contact with Williams or Gerald.

Williams watches them with narrowed eyes. Then he spits into the dirt, turns abruptly, and heads downhill toward Taos. Gerald can hear him muttering angrily to himself, but he doesn’t move close enough to hear the actual words. It isn’t necessary. There’s clearly no love lost between Old Bill and the head of the Santa Fe Trail Survey expedition.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 9

Williams and Gerald move down the Cimarron over the course of the next week, trapping as they go, a day or two in each location, setting traps, pulling in beaver, skinning carcasses, and stretching plews. They eat what they trap until the aroma of fatty flesh drifting from the fire begins to turn Gerald’s stomach.

Occasionally, they see wild turkey. The sleek birds slip through the forest without any apparent awareness of the humans, but keep well out of reach. Old Bill claims he doesn’t want to shoot them for fear of bringing larger, two-footed varmints into range, but Gerald suspects the red-haired man has an affinity with the birds that precludes killing them unless absolutely necessary.

Gerald himself finds the turkeys unaccountably beautiful. There’s a wild wariness to them unlike anything he’s ever encountered in barnyard fowl. Although he has to admit that an alternative to beaver flesh would be nice. When the men and their mules break into the small snow-drifted valley Williams calls Ute Park, it’s more than the scenic value that lifts Gerald’s heart. A herd of perhaps thirty elk browses at the base of a small rocky cliff to his left.

Williams halts, studying the herd. Although the elk seem unaware of the trappers, they also seem restless. Suddenly, a large cow bolts toward the river on the other side of the valley. As the other elk follow, three wolves—two small grays and a big black—circle into sight, tagging the stragglers.

The elk barrel across the snow and grass, surge into the icy stream, then scramble up the far bank into the trees. A young bull, its left hind leg dragging, balks at the river’s edge, perhaps wishing for a more shallow ford. The wolves move in swiftly. As they cut the elk away from the stream, a raven caws overhead.

Williams chuckles, drops his mule’s lead rope, and lifts his rifle. As its muzzle roars, an identical blast erupts from the base of the stone outcropping, and the bull stumbles and goes down. The wolves dart in, then pull slightly back. The big black looks over his shoulder, toward the cliff.

Williams’ head swivels, following the wolf’s gaze. “Well, I’ll be hornswoggled,” he says.

An Indian man, his hair in the long braids and tall pompadour characteristic of Ute men, moves from the cliff. He waves an arm at the wolves and they slink, tails between their legs, toward the leafless willow brush that crowds the riverbank a half-dozen yards downstream. Then they turn and crouch in the grass, eyes flicking between the approaching man and the elk.

“Waagh!” Old Bill groans. “That Ute’s gonna claim that bull, and now him and those wolves have that whole herd most righteously spooked. We don’t have a chance in hell of gettin’ another one, and all we’ve got for supper is that quarter beaver that’s on the edge of sour, and that little bit of tail.”

“It may have been your shot that brought that bull down,” Gerald points out.

“Don’t matter,” Williams says. His eyes rake the valley. “He appears to be alone,” he adds thoughtfully. Then he shrugs. “Well, it’s worth a try anyhow. We’re two against one.”

He grabs his mule’s lead rope and moves forward, Gerald and his mule slightly behind.

The Indian looks up as they move toward him. Then he raises his knife and slices deep into the elk’s belly. He yanks out a long handful of glistening entrails and turns to toss it toward the wolves. The black darts in, mouths the food, and drags it off, his companions following obsequiously.

“That’s us,” Williams says over his shoulder. “Those grays.”

Gerald grins and nods, his eyes on the Ute, who’s pulled off his buckskin shirt and gone back to work on the elk carcass, pointedly ignoring the two trappers. Gerald and Williams are within ten feet before he looks up again.

Old Bill signs “Hello” and the other man nods noncommittally as his knife continues to slice into the elk.

“That there was a good shot,” Williams says, then repeats himself with a few fluent hand signs.

A smile flashes across the Indian’s face. “You shot wide,” he says in English.

Williams chuckles. He looks down at the carcass and gestures toward its front quarters. “Mind if I just turn him a mite?”

The Indian, who’s now crouched at the elk’s tail, incising careful circles around its hooves, nods and pauses in his work. Williams moves forward, grasps the bull’s neck in both hands, and lifts, twisting the body first one way, then the other.

“There’s a bullet in each shoulder,” he says.

The Indian grins. “I arrived first. Made first cut.”

“You did at that,” Williams agrees. “But that’s a whole lot of elk for one man to feed on.”

The man’s eyes flash and the knife in his hand lifts slightly. Gerald shifts his rifle, but the Ute’s eyes remain on Old Bill’s face. He gestures toward the rocky outcropping and the mouth of the narrow valley that stretches further north. “My family waits.”

“I don’t suppose we could trade you a bit of beaver for a haunch?” Gerald asks.

Williams nods at Gerald. “Beaver fat would be just the thing to flavor that elk,” he says. He turns to the Ute. “You know how dry and tough elk can be. Especially this time of year, when the little grass they’ve had is all dried out and worthless.”

The Indian’s gaze moves across the valley’s patches of still-thick brown grass, then to Williams’ face.

“Though, I have to tell you we’ve got a righteous hunger for beaver,” the trapper says. “My partner here likes it so well he just truly can’t get enough of it. So you could say he’s makin’ a sacrifice, offering you some. We can spare you some tail, too, for that matter.” He looks at Gerald. “If that’s all right with you.”

Gerald nods and Williams looks at the Ute. “We just thought we’d do you a favor, is all. Give you somethin’ to sweeten the pot and put some taste in that rangy old winter elk.”

“Show it me.”

Gerald fumbles with the leather thongs that secure the wrapped portion of beaver to his mule’s packsaddle and lifts the meat down. “It was fresh yesterday morning,” he says.

The Indian leans forward slightly, his nostrils flaring. Then he pulls back, nods, and gestures toward the elk carcass. “I trade front left shank,” he says. He grins at Williams. “Your piece.”

Gerald grins. The front pieces are smaller than the hindquarters.

Old Bill nods. “That’ll do right well.” He sticks out a hand. “My name’s Old Bill Williams and this here’s Gerald Locke.”

The Ute frowns at Gerald. “I know older man this name.”

Gerald smiles. “My father and I are both named Gerald Locke,” he says. “I am called Gerald Locke Junior.” The man looks puzzled. “Gerald the younger,” Gerald explains.

The Ute nods, studying Gerald’s face. “I can see it is so.” He lifts a bloodied hand toward his chest. “I am Stands Alone.” His gesture takes in the valley, then the peaks upstream. “This my place.”

Gerald nods. How far does the Ute’s place extend? But he merely says, “We’ve been trapping beaver on the river here. Is that all right with you?”

Williams swings his head, glaring, but neither Gerald nor Stands Alone respond. They stand, looking into each other’s faces, then the Ute says, “For beaver to flavor the pot,” and Gerald grins and nods.

Williams shakes his head in disgust. He jerks his thumb downstream. “We’re trappin’ that direction.” His tone makes it clear that he’s not asking permission.

Stands Alone nods. “No beaver there beyond a half-day journey,” he says. “The water is swift.” He jerks his head southwest, toward the other side of the river. “That way, toward the black valley, there may be beaver.”

Williams frowns. “Not in the Moreno Valley,” he says. “We was just there and there ain’t any there. Never has been, far’s I know.”

Stands Alone gestures toward the peaks that rise above the opposite bank. “That way is a smaller valley with many seeps. I have seen beaver.” He shrugs. “Too far for too little meat.” He spreads his hands and a ghost of a smile glimmers in his eyes. “I give them to you.”

Old Bill throws back his head and barks a laugh. “We can have all we want, huh? As long as we leave the elk here for you?”

Stands Alone smiles noncommittally.

Gerald chuckles and gazes toward the pine-covered slopes. “I suppose the quickest way there is back the way we came.”

Stands Alone nods. “There is a way when grass is green,” he says. “But when snow comes, following water is best.” He bends and goes back to his work, deftly cuts a section of meat from the elk’s shoulder, then proffers it to Old Bill.

Williams shrugs, wraps the meat in a piece of buckskin, and attaches the bundle to his mule’s packsaddle. Stands Alone returns to his labors and doesn’t look up as the trappers turn and move up the valley.

As the canyon narrows around them, Gerald glances back. The Ute man has been joined by two female figures and a horse-drawn travois. The women bend over the elk while he washes his hands in the river.

~ ~ ~ ~

Intermittent snow slides in over the canyon brim as the trappers move west. The flakes become steadily smaller and more intense, and the cold increases proportionately. Gerald and Williams camp again at the foot of the eagle nesting cliff. When they wake, the snow has stopped and the valley beyond is blindingly white. As Gerald squints, trying to see the peaks on the other side, Old Bill grabs charcoal from the coolest edge of the fire and begins smudging it onto his face below his eyes.

“You best be doin’ this, too,” he tells Gerald. “It keeps the glare from gettin’ your eyes. Your skin’s darker’n mine but even the Injuns do it this time of year.”

Gerald swings his head, waiting for Williams to speculate on the difference in their skin tone, but Old Bill has turned away and is smearing charcoal on his mule’s cheeks, as well. The animal pulls back, resisting, and Gerald chuckles and reaches for his own piece of burnt wood.

They move out, into a sweep of icy, concentrated sunlight. The glare bounces from the snow and forces the men’s eyes into mere slits. Gerald’s head feels like it’s being split in two, first by the dry sharpness of the cold, then by the piercing light. Even with the charcoal smudged on his cheeks, he has to work to see Williams, a mere ten feet ahead.

Old Bill hugs the valley’s eastern edge, skirting the base of the snow-covered hills as they move south. On the west, the mountaintops are buried behind a mass of gray clouds that seem to only intensify the blaze of the sun above them.

Then a breeze springs up. It lifts the top layer of snow and spins an icy spray around the men and mules. “Might as well be snowin’ again!” Williams yells. His voice drops, still muttering, then rises. “That Ute can have it!”

Gerald’s lips are too stiff with cold for him to even smile in response, but when they stop to noon in the lee of a snow-covered ridge and he’s recovered a little, he grins at Williams. “You think Stands Alone spends much time up here in winter?”

“Not in a teepee!” Old Bill says. “These winds’d blow his lodge poles to smithereens.” He grunts disparagingly and uses a finger to work a piece of jerky from behind a molar. He pulls the half-chewed meat out, looks at it, puts it back in his mouth, and tilts his canteen. Nothing comes out. “Frozen solid.” He looks at Gerald. “You got any?”

Gerald reaches for his own water container and jiggles it. “It sounds like something’s still liquid,” he says. He hands Williams the canteen.

“See, that’s the difference between an Injun and a white man,” Williams says. “You just hand it to me, knowing I’m wantin’ a drink. An Injun’ll bargain with you, daylight to dark, to see what he can get out of you. Make you beg for what he’s planning to give you.”

Gerald tilts his head. A white man, huh? Well, that answers that question. But he can’t, in all fairness, let the mischaracterization slide. “I wish my experience bore that out,” he says. “I’ve known white men who wouldn’t so much as let you step on their land without making conditions.”

Williams shrugs. “I reckon there’s bad apples in every lot,” he concedes. He turns and looks up the valley. “But that Ute saying this valley is his? Well, that just ain’t so. For one thing, the Apaches come through here regular-like. They might have a difference of opinion about who all it belongs to.” He nods toward the cloud-covered peaks on the other side of the valley. “And, sure as shootin’, the Taos Injuns on the other side of those mountains would have a righteous something to say about his claim. It’s their hunting grounds, too.”

He shakes his head as he returns Gerald’s canteen. “But see, most Injuns don’t see the land the same way we whites do, with clear boundaries marked out and a man’s right to work it. To them, the country’s just something to hunt on and gather from, not to plant and work and turn it into more than it was at the start. Except for the Pueblos, it takes a righteous amount of palaver to get them so’s they’re willing to divide it up between them and actually plow it. Not like us.”

Gerald looks at the other man, thinking of his preference for blazing trail over living in a cabin. Yet here he is, asserting the value of making the land more than a place to hunt and gather. Gerald’s own propensities are toward plowing and planting, so he tends to agree with Old Bill, but the Utes and Apaches have been hunting and gathering on this land for generations. Which gives them some rights. It’s a different way of looking at it, is all. They just don’t feel the need to sink their fingers in the soil, the way he does. A need which is very strong.

Old Bill rises and Gerald grimaces at the quandary, wraps his mule’s lead rope around his gloved hand, and prepares to follow Williams back into the wind-driven snow.

The cold intensifies as the setting sun silhouettes the western clouds. When Gerald lifts his hand to his face, his glove bumps numb cheeks as stiff as boards. He turns stiffly, scanning for another sheltering abutment. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Williams move abruptly left. Numbly, Gerald follows.

A trickle of half-frozen water flows from the tree line, forming a slushy black line in the snow. The men and mules move along the rivulet and into the trees. The wind drops sharply in the lee of the hill and Gerald releases breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding.

The next morning they discover that Stands Alone spoke truly. Beaver ponds dot the small valley that parallels the larger one. And they’re not completely frozen over. It takes a good two weeks to trap them out.

When the men return to the larger valley, the snow has abated and the grass is visible again. Gerald pauses beside the small, still slushy stream, and gazes at the western peaks, especially the massive middle one. He looks south, then north, and nods. Yes, he has seen this before. From this angle, it’s recognizable as the valley he crossed with Ewing Young’s mule train. The one with the long grasses, the winding streams, the soil so black his fingers itched to to touch it, to tuck seed into its fertile protection.

As he follows Williams’ mule down the valley, he studies the pine trees on its slopes. They’re black against a now-turquoise sky. And to think that same sky was thick with grey snow-bearing clouds just a week ago! What a changeable place it is! He has a sudden urge to laugh out loud.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

Over the next two weeks, Williams and Gerald trap their way steadily up the Red River. As they move higher, the temperatures drop a little more each night. The cottonwoods and the heart-shaped foliage of the white-barked aspens turn ever more golden.

Then snow falls for the first time. Williams stands by the morning campfire and studies the sides of the canyon. Its sharp rocks are outlined in white. The trapper swings his head toward the stream and the fingers of ice that edge its banks. Then he nods eastward, up the canyon.

“I reckon it’s about time for us to head on to greener pastures,” he says. “We’re not going to spy much more beaver up this creek. From here on, it’s too narrow and steep for them to have much chance at damming it solid. And anything dammable that runs into it is gonna be froze over anyway. We’re high up enough now that the snow’s likely to be nothing but serious from now until March. I reckon we’d better head on across Bobcat before it really sets in.”

“Bobcat?”

Old Bill jerks his head to the southeast. “There’s a pass thataway. It’ll drop us down into the prettiest little valley you ever saw.” He grins. “Well, not so little. But it’s a sight.” He swings toward his mule. “We’d best get to moving though, if we want to get over it before nightfall.”

The trail to Bobcat Pass is a steady climb up a rocky path dominated by snow-dusted ponderosas and other pine that cling improbably to almost perpendicular slopes. Gerald feels the upward incline in his ears. First a dull pressure, than a sharp pain until he sets himself to yawning and swallowing air. How high are they climbing, anyway?

High enough to be above the river, which slices through a steep sided and heavily treed ravine below. The actual pass itself is more grass than trees. The snow is thick, but drifted enough that the dried herbage is still evident. The men pause to let the mules blow and browse for a few minutes. They pull jerky for themselves from their packs, then begin the descent, into the trees again, on a slant almost as steep as the one they’ve just scaled. Elk lift their heads from pocket meadows too small even for beaver as the trappers and their animals move down the mountainside.

They drop into a narrow defile and follow it east and south below slopes dotted with twisted brown scrub oak and green-black pine. The snow hasn’t reached this side of the mountains yet and a small stream, not yet frozen, trickles merrily through narrow meadows thick with willow and drying grass. Just ahead, a flock of perhaps twenty wild turkeys moves silently away from the other side of the stream and weaves uphill through the trees. None of the birds turn their heads toward the men and mules, but they’re clearly moving away from the foreign presence.

Gerald takes a deep breath, breathing in the cold pine-scented air. Though the tree-covered slopes are almost close enough touch, the sky to the east feels more open, somehow. He suddenly realizes how closed in he’s felt in the last few weeks in the Red River’s canyon.

They reach the valley early the next morning, just as the sun is rising behind the massive snow-dusted rock abutment that Williams calls Baldy Mountain. As they move south beside the creek in the valley’s center, Williams gestures to the west. Gerald turns his head. The snow-clad peaks opposite Baldy glow pink, reflecting the sunrise.

Gerald shakes his head, bemused. The sun rises in all directions in this valley. In fact, the way the sunlight glints from the dew on the brown grasses makes it feel as if the light rises from the ground itself. The grass is long and healthy. It sweeps from the bushes scattered along Baldy’s slopes down into the valley floor and then west over the foothills to the edge of the pine-covered and pink-topped mountains. It’s thickest along the creek bank. Gerald’s farmer heart twinges with desire.

Old Bill and his mule drop back to walk beside Gerald. “This little bit of a stream’s called the Moreno River,” he says.

The younger man grins. The strip of water is so narrow he could jump across it, but they call it a river.

“Here in nuevo mexico, if it flows all year, then it’s a river. It don’t rightly matter how much water actually runs in it,” Williams adds.

“Doesn’t Moreno mean black?” Gerald asks. The water isn’t black, but the soil the stream cuts through certainly is. Dark and loamy. Inside his buckskin gloves, his fingers twitch, wanting to know how such a soil might respond to the touch. It looks as healthy as the grasses that weave their roots into its heart. He glances toward Baldy again and blinks. What he’d taken for bushes on the lower slopes have resolved into a scattered herd of feeding elk. Involuntarily, he wonders what Suzanna Peabody would say to such a sight.

But Williams is talking again, his voice high and querulous, a sure sign that he’s about to launch into a story. “First time I saw this valley, there was a foot of snow on the ground and a group of Utes camping just yonder, under that stony outcrop.”

He points to the right, where a mass of stone juts from the side of a flat-topped grassy hill. “I’d just pushed over Bobcat Pass in snow so deep the mules could barely plow through it. I’d been walkin’ three days. I figured if I stopped, I’d just righteously freeze to death.”

Old Bill shakes his head. “I tell you, I was mighty pleased to see that little camp of Utes down there and even gladder when I realized its chief was a friend of mine. They welcomed me well enough, but he wouldn’t tell me a righteous lick about what they were doin’ up here in that kind of weather. They should of been down Cimarron Canyon feeding their families and waitin’ out the winter like sensible men. Instead, they were laying here, waiting on something they probably weren’t supposed to be tanglin’ with. Mexicano soldiers, most likely. I got myself thawed out a little, then I hightailed it outta there with just my rifle, one beaver trap, and the clothes on my back.”

Williams shrugs. “Old Three Hands got two good mules for feeding me a couple of days, but I got out of tanglin’ in a fight that was none of my business. So I reckon it washed clean, although I sure did miss the use of those mules. I just hope they didn’t get turned into stew meat when those damn fools stopped waitin’ for a fight and headed for home.”

He pauses. Gerald knows he’s expected to prod the story forward. “You never got your mules back?” he asks.

“Nope, I never did. And the next time I saw Three Hands, he didn’t recall having seen me at all that whole winter.” Old Bill grins. “It turns out they’d had a bit of a scrap with the Mexican soldiers. He didn’t have much to say about that, neither. Those government troops seem to have got the better of them . Old Three Hands sure didn’t want to put his jaw to talking about anything that happened that season.” Williams chuckles. “The Utes ain’t ones for dwellin’ on their defeats.”

“Like most men.”

Williams snorts in agreement and points ahead, to a cluster of ponderosas in the curve of the stream. “We’ll stop there to noon. That’ll give the mules a chance to feed up. This grass may be brown, but it’s still tasty.” He nods southward. “If you’re thinkin’ this is pretty, wait’ll you see the south part.”

“There’s more?”

“You could say that.” Old Bill chuckles. “You might just be able to say that.”

The mules are reluctant to leave the long grasses, but once the men have eaten, Williams seems eager to push on. They follow the stream through a mile-long passageway that winds between the hills. The ground is thick with grass and spotted with thick-trunked ponderosas. Then the trees end and the land opens before them. Williams halts, grins at Gerald, and waves a proud hand at the view. “Now that’s something, ain’t it?” he says.

They’re standing at the top of a broad slope that angles gently down to a grassy basin that’s perhaps a mile wide and extends south toward haze-covered blue peaks. The valley is bisected by a series of low grass-covered ridges that block his view of the valley floor, but Gerald suspects the grass continues right to the edge of those southern mountains. If it’s anything like the growth at his feet, this is a rich valley indeed.

Elk are scattered across the hillside to his right. At its base, a stream narrower than the Moreno slips from the west and joins the Moreno, then snakes slowly southeast. Gerald’s gaze lifts and moves along the mountains that line the valley, east and west. He squints, puzzled. There’s something familiar about this place.

Williams gestures toward a low point in the peaks to the left, south of Baldy and a flat-topped ridge that bulks beyond it. “Those streams are headin’ there, where the Cimarron starts,” he says. “There’s a crag above the marsh there that the Injuns favor for gatherin’ eagle feathers. There were three big scraggly nests perched up in there the last time I come through. There’s likely more further up the slopes.”

He waves his hand at the grassland. “That there’s prime eagle hunting grounds for keeping their young fed up, what with the smaller birds and le petite chien.”

Gerald lifts an eyebrow. “Prairie dogs? The more the eagles eat, the better. They’d wipe out the grasses with their mounds. And that’s prime hay meadow, from the looks of it.”

Williams chuckles. “Prime elk browse, at any rate. Even the occasional buffalo.” He clucks at his pack mule. “This valley gets a mite windy and cold this time of year. We need to get a move on and get under the lee of one of those ridges before nightfall. I’m lookin’ to scout east along the Cimarron tomorrow and see if there’s any beaver come in since I was here two seasons back.”

Gerald follows the trapper down the broad slope, but his mind isn’t on beaver. The broad grassland and small streams move his thoughts inevitably to cattle and farming. The length and thickness of the grass here tell him there’s water available pretty much year-round.

And there are no people. No farmers, at any rate. The Indians apparently come through to hunt and even camp. Do they stay long? How would they feel about a man who wanted to actually put roots down here, build a house? Put in a garden? Grow a family along with it?

Suzanna Peabody’s straightforward black eyes rise before him and Gerald shakes his head. That’s presuming too much. But wouldn’t it be something if she should decide— He forces his mind back to the more plausible daydream of ranch, house, hay, and cattle.

“Does anybody actually live up here year-round?” he asks that night as he and Williams crouch next to a fire at the base of Eagle’s Nest rock. The canyon wall soars above them, black in the darkness. They’re right up against it, out of the way of the cattail-strewn marsh that absorbs the waters of the Moreno River. Gerald can hear it trickling from the marsh into the intermittent stream that runs through the canyon they’ll enter tomorrow. Cimarron Creek, Williams calls it. “Cimarron” because it’s as wild and unpredictable as the mountain sheep also called “cimarron.” “Creek” because it doesn’t flow year-round.

“This here valley’s too cold for perching in durin’ the winter months,” Williams says. “It’s a righteously beautiful place in the summer, once summer finally makes it this high up. It takes a mite longer than most places to warm up and the cold comes in earlier, too.” He shrugs. “It ain’t good for beaver though. Not enough trees and willow to make it worth their while.”

“I was thinking about how it would be to farm,” Gerald says casually. “But from what you say, it sounds like the growing season’s a bit short.”

Williams snorts. “The growin’ season’s short and the winter season’s long,” he says. “I surely wouldn’t try it. But then I ain’t a farming man.” He points to the rock abutment overhead. “I’d rather be on top of that rock, seein’ what I can see, lookin’ for new trails to blaze. Not cramped up in a cabin with nothin’ to do.” He shrugs. “But if a man was goin’ to venture livin’ up here, he could always run cattle. There’s grass enough. Though you’d have to fight the elk for the range and the wolves and the cougars for the calves.”

“And watch out for prairie dogs,” Gerald says wryly.

Williams nods. “And then you’d have to get those cows down to market.” He pushes back his hat. “I hear tell some of the Taos folk run their goats and sheep up here in the summer. Between them, the Injuns, the elk, and the weather, it’d be a contest who’d wear you out soonest.”

Gerald nods, gazing into the dark toward the marsh, his mind drifting toward the richness of the soil in the valley beyond.

“And you’d have a tough time findin’ a woman who’d be willin’ to live this far from nowhere.” Williams grins mischievously at Gerald. “Even Suzanna Peabody.”

Gerald’s head jerks toward Old Bill in spite of himself.

Williams stretches his legs toward the fire. “You ain’t the only one who’s dreamed that particular notion, you know. We’ve all had that idea, one time or the other.”

Gerald feels a tight fist of disgust in his belly and fights to keep it from showing on his face.

Williams shakes his head at the fire, a rueful smile on his lips. “Not that any of us’d touch her. She’s that fine a lady.” He nods at Gerald companionably. “But she does make you think of what it’d be like to settle with a girl like herself, don’t she now? Educated like that. Smart as a whip. Not takin’ sass off a soul, not even her daddy. But not mean like. It’s just she can talk him so sweet he don’t even know he’s been twisted around her little finger.” He chuckles. “’Course, that might be a reason for some of us to think twice about a gal of her caliber.”

Gerald permits himself a small smile. To think of another man thinking of Suzanna Peabody in that way makes his stomach clench, but he does like that Old Bill admires her qualities, knows what she’s worth.

Not that he himself really knows the girl, Gerald reminds himself. But what Williams says of her fits what Gerald instinctively feels. The true heart of her. The strength. As to her taking no sass off anybody, he knows that isn’t quite true. He’s seen her frightened, though not cowed. And he’s very glad that he happened around the corner of that narrow street where Enoch Jones had her cornered against that adobe wall.

Not that his intervention lays any obligation upon her, he reminds himself later, as he spreads his bedroll on the rocky ground beneath the cliff. Or means she’s special to him in any way. He would do the same for any woman in such a predicament.

Yet, as he dozes off, Gerald’s mind drifts to the image of black eyes looking straight into his, slim brown hands offering him a plate of food.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

The day after the visit to the Peabody’s, Gerald shares yet another whisky with Old Bill in yet another Taos taberna. In the middle of a story about his life among the Osage Indians, Williams interrupts himself. “So how is it you happened to already know our Miz Peabody?” he asks abruptly.

Gerald shrugs. “A man was paying her what seemed to be unwanted attention and I intervened.” He lifts his drink. “Anyone else would’ve done the same thing.”

Old Bill lifts a scraggly red eyebrow. “Would the gentleman who was providing this unwanted attention happen to be named Enoch Jones?”

Gerald sets his drink on the table. “Do you know him?”

Williams’ back straightens and his eyes narrow. “I know him all right. I’ll wring his fat neck for him, the mothersuckin’ balls for brains bastard!”

Gerald frowns. “Has he been after her before this?”

“He’s made eyes,” Old Bill says grimly. “You sure it was him?”

“Oh yes. We were in the same train coming out.”

“He’ll be waitin’ for you t’ turn your back, you know.”

“He already disliked me.” Gerald shrugs. “This will just give him another reason.”

Williams raises an inquiring eyebrow and Gerald briefly describes the incident with the Kiowa boy, then—more fully—Jones’ treatment of the mules.

“He’s a godforsaken bastard, that one,” Old Bill says. “I’ve known a few craven-hearted men in my time, but he’s one of the worst.” His eyes snap. “To think he’d have the gall to put his hands on our Suzanna.”

“It was the way he spoke to her,” Gerald says. “As if she was dirt under his feet.”

“Well, he’s got this mothersuckin’ idea that a white skin makes him better than the rest of the human race,” Williams says. “And Miz Peabody being part Navajo but so well bred and nice mannered must just stick in his craw.”

“She’s part Navajo?”

“Now there’s a story for you.” Old Bill leans forward and lowers his voice. “No one talks about it much, because Jeremiah doesn’t like to be reminded how he was boondoggled.” He tilts his red head. “At least, that’s how he figgers it.” He shrugs. “Any other man would of known what the girl was up to, but he was still green and those New Englanders, they expect everybody else to have their same standards.”

Gerald frowns, confused.

Williams stretches back, fingering his whisky. “See, what happened was, Peabody showed up out here from the East along about 1809. He was still pretty much just a whippersnapper, runnin’ away from some trouble with a gal and another man.” Williams shrugs. “The usual. Anyway, he got out here safe enough and managed to sweet talk the ricos into letting him stay, but then this puta started after him. She was the daughter of a French trapper and a Navajo gal the trapper had bought from the Comanches.”

Williams grins ruefully. “The girl was a righteously pretty little thing and she pretty much got what she wanted. Jeremiah fell in love, or so he thought, and when she told him she was enciento, he hooked up with her. Didn’t marry her, though. He wouldn’t turn Catholic, even for a girl. But he swore he’d take care of her and the child. And he did, even when she started running around with other men.”

Old Bill shakes his head. “Should of turned her out. I would of. But by that time, the little girl was born and they say she was a righteous beauty even then. Her daddy fell in love for real then, that’s for certain sure.”

Williams pauses, looking incongruously bemused. “Babies’ll do that t’ a man if you’re not careful. Tie you down faster’n any woman can.” He shakes a finger at Gerald. “My advice is, don’t stay around long enough to find out if there’s gonna be a kid, and if you do find out, then cut out before the coon actually arrives. If you stay, you’re lost, sure as oil and water don’t mix.”

Gerald grins. “I’ll remember that.”

Williams raises both hands, leans forward, and slaps the rough wooden table with both palms. “So what’re you gonna do with yourself this winter? You decide yet?”

Gerald shakes his head.

“Why don’t you throw in with me?” the trapper asks. “I’ve got nothing to do here except play court to Sibley on his road commission work and I ain’t much good at payin’ court.” He snorts. “Sibley’d tell you that.” He leans back, hands still flat on the table. “I’ll show you the ropes and we’ll split the results. Just you and me, private like. I’m not about to share my hunting grounds with just anyone.”

“Your hunting grounds?”

Old Bill winks. “I know some places up in the hills that they all think are trapped out. But it’s good hunting if you know where to look and there ain’t too many out looking.”

Gerald studies the opinionated mountain man. There’s something about Williams that’s quite appealing. Or maybe it’s just that Old Bill’s loquaciousness means Gerald doesn’t have to talk much when they’re together. There’s certainly little need to explain himself or where he comes from.

Gerald nods thoughtfully, then more firmly, looking into the trapper’s face. “I’d be honored to throw in with you,” he says. “When do you expect to start?”

“Well, there ain’t no time like the present!” Williams scrapes back his chair. “Let’s get a move on.”

Gerald follows him out the taberna door, squelching his desire to make a farewell visit to the Peabody home, aware that he has no right to make such a call, hoping against hope that he might chance across Suzanna before he and Old Bill leave town. Or that Williams will decide he needs one last meal of the Peabody cook’s wheat flour rolls.

But when the old trapper decides to do something, he throws himself into it completely. He and Gerald are busy from dawn to dusk: stocking up on flour, coffee, and salt; purchasing Gerald’s gear, including elk hide moccasins and buckskin trousers and shirt; and locating and bargaining for two sturdy mules for their gear. Gerald keeps an eye out for Suzanna Peabody, but doesn’t catch so much as a glimpse of her in the next three days.

They slip out of Taos in the middle of the night. Williams has mentioned casually to several of the other trappers that he’s heading up the Rio del Norte, and he and Gerald move out in that direction under a star-studded sky.

The next morning, the wheat fields of Taos Valley give way to rolling hills covered with forty-foot juniper and occasional long-needled thick-barked ponderosa pine. But Old Bill is paralleling the Rio del Norte, not heading toward it. He moves due north, then slightly east, to hit what he calls Red River Creek well east of its confluence with the del Norte. They camp beside the creek that night, in the shadow of the mountains it flows from. According to Williams, the stream is called “Colorado” in Spanish, in honor of the reddish sediment that stains it during spring runoff.

The next morning they follow the Red’s narrow canyon east into the Sangre de Cristos. Williams leads the way, the gap between the men too far for any real conversation and Old Bill anxious not to be spotted. Gerald’s not sure if Williams is more concerned about Indians or other trappers.

He takes the opportunity to study the massive granite and sandstone boulders that jut from the canyon walls, dwarfing the men and mules, and the ponderosas that cling precariously in the gaps between them. There’s a brooding beauty in the darkness of the pines. Sunlight breaks around the rocks onto the clear-running river below, then cuts off abruptly as the canyon rim narrows overhead.

Where the canyon is wider, broad grassy areas stretch beside the stream. Even Gerald can spot the old beaver sign in these meadows. Graying tree stumps stick up from the grasses and show themselves among the alder and willows along the river bank. Their tops, gnawed long ago into dull points by beaver incisors, are chipped like poorly sharpened pencils.

The men find no truly marshy areas or ponds with active beaver lodges until well into the second day. Williams is ahead and Gerald’s beginning to wonder when he’ll decide to noon, when the older man raises his reedy voice. “Well now, that’s a beaver dam if ever I saw one!”

A windblown snag straddles the river from bank to bank. Ten- and twelve-foot lengths of two-inch thick branches are jammed hard against the snag at every possible angle. River mud has been smudged between them, whether by beaver or water flow, it’s hard to say.

The dam is massive, perhaps eight feet tall and fifteen long. Grasses dot its top and sides. They’re well rooted in the sediment and enhance the dam’s strength. Water slips around its near end, trickling downstream just enough to keep the pond behind it in check. There are no discernible banks to the pond itself. The impounded water seeps through a swath of cattails, then into a tangle of coyote willow. Beyond the willows, long grasses rise from mucky soil, creating a bog that blocks the canyon floor for a good quarter mile upriver.

Williams pushes his hat back on his head and scratches his scraggly red beard as he studies the dam and the pond. Then he turns to Gerald.

“This is where moccasins are better’n boots,” he says. “We’re about to get damp.” Old Bill’s mule nickers at him and he looks at her impatiently. “Ah hell, let’s noon first.” He pulls off his hat. “Then we’ll start slogging.”

They loose the mules to graze among the water-rich grasses, and munch buffalo jerky while they study the bog. “We could trap it from here,” Williams says. “If we’re careful, the beaver won’t know which direction we come from.” He snorts. “There’s sure enough water around here to wash our stink out.” He glances up at the sheer canyon walls. “But we’d only have one way out if any Utes or Apaches show up.” He clucks his tongue as he shakes his head. “We’re gonna have to get past this. Come at it from upstream.”

“And if Apaches or Utes show up when we’re above this?” Gerald asks. “Won’t this mess block us from moving out of here quickly?”

Williams grins mischievously. “Then we’ll have to head upstream instead.” He glances at Gerald’s feet. “Better put your moccasins on. Those leather boots will take a month of Sundays to dry out good and proper.”

Gerald grimaces. He suspects the elk hide moccasins aren’t going to be much protection against the icy water.

And he’s right. When he steps into the stream, the shock to his feet is truly breathtaking.

Ahead of him, leading a reluctant mule through the water-logged grass, Old Bill looks back over his shoulder and grins. “They’ll numb up soon enough,” he says. “Then you won’t feel a thing.”

Gerald grins wryly and clucks at his mule, who seems more interested in eating than wading. Smart animal, he thinks grimly.

They move upstream and well beyond the pond before Williams finds a camping site to his liking. The next morning, he gathers gear enough for a day’s trapping, hands Gerald a long piece of deadwood sharpened on one end, hoists a pack onto his back, and leads the way back to the beaver dam.

They maneuver downstream perhaps a mile, though it seems longer. Gerald’s feet are blocks of ice before the trapper abruptly halts. “Here it is!” Williams hisses. “Looks different, this direction.”

Gerald wades through the water to stand beside Williams in the eddying stream. A wall of willow lines the river’s banks, marking the edge of the beaver pond. On their left, there’s a narrow muddy incline between the willows. Neatly-clipped willow sticks lie beside it. A small bush has been sheared off to within a foot of the ground, the tip of each stub angled and sharp.

“Beaver feeding?” Gerald asks.

Williams hisses, “Quiet!” Then he nods and jerks a thumb toward the strip of mud. “That there’s their slide,” he whispers. “We’ll be settin’ the trap out from that, a good three feet or so.” He points at a small section of water that’s noticeably darker than the rest, a sign that the pond bottom drops sharply in that location. “Right about there.”

Gerald considers the dark spot and wonders just how deep the pool actually is. But he only nods.

Old Bill wades forward cautiously. He stops, extends his foot, and taps it along the bottom of the pond, then grunts approvingly. He turns and beckons to Gerald. “Come and see.”

Gerald edges closer, staying between Williams and the bank.

Williams moves his foot from side to side. The water swirls, turning brown with silt. “I’m using my foot to move some of this here mud into a little hill,” he explains. “When I’m done, the top of it’ll be about a foot below the surface.”

Gerald nods his understanding, if not his ability to see what the trapper is actually doing.

“I’ve got to make it wide enough to hold the trap and all,” Williams explains, gesturing with his hands, forgetting to whisper. He yanks the bag on his back around to rest against his scrawny belly, then pulls out a trap and begins unwrapping the steel chain that’s wound around it. “You know how to set this beast?”

“Well, I do on solid ground,” Gerald says.

Williams grins. “It ain’t so theoretical now, is it?” He lifts the trap chain to one side, out of the way, then flips the trap itself onto its side and braces it against his thigh. He wraps his hands around the metal clamps at each end and squeezes steadily, forcing them together. As the springs compress, the trap jaws are forced open and into position.

Old Bill gives Gerald a little nod and jerks his chin at the trap. “Just flip that trigger piece into that there dog.”

Gerald gingerly uses his free hand to snap the dangling piece of narrow, angled metal into the notch on the opposite side of the trap. This will keep the trap’s jaws open until an unwary animal ventures too close and bumps the trigger and the metal jaws clamp shut around the animal’s leg or other body part.

Williams lifts the trap carefully, gives a satisfied nod, and grins at Gerald. “That’s the way to do it.”

Gerald grins back at him. “That approach requires some real strength.”

Williams nods complacently. “It’s all in the hands.” He deftly slides the trap under the water and onto the pile of dredged-up mud, then lifts the chain and moves farther into the pond. When he finds the anchorage spot he’s looking for, he motions Gerald to bring him the trap stake.

Gerald wades across and hands Williams the piece of sharpened deadwood, and the trapper slips its blunt end into the final loop of the chain. Then he pulls a leather cord from a pocket, wraps it around the stick twice, then threads it through a loop of the chain, and knots it into place just below the top of the stake. Once the chain is attached, he grabs the stick with both hands and shoves the pointed end firmly downward, driving it into the pond floor. He nods in satisfaction and turns to follow the chain back to the trap site. Gerald wades after him.

“Cold yet?” Old Bill asks over his shoulder.

“Startin’ to feel it,” Gerald says, his lips so stiff he can hardly form the words.

Williams chuckles. “You got sand, I’ll say that for you.” He gestures toward the stake. “All that’s the preliminaries. This next step’s the crucial piece.” He wades to the willow bushes along the bank, pulls out his knife, and slices off a long switch. He scrapes the bark from one end, then reaches into a pocket. “I’m gonna need you to take care of this,” he says. He holds out the corked piece of antelope horn that serves as his bait container.

Gerald has smelled castoreum before, but the choking scent of it is always a shock to his senses. He grimaces as he removes the cork and tilts the contents toward the trapper. Williams grins at him, sticks his gloved forefinger into the goop, and smears it onto the scraped end of the willow switch.

As Gerald recaps the bit of horn, Williams chuckles. “Look at your face!” He shakes his head. “Better get use to it, sonny. That stuff’s what fortunes are made of.”

“It stinks like a lot of necessary things,” Gerald says dryly.

Old Bill laughs and moves to the edge of the pond. He forces the thicker end of the willow stick into the bank at an angle, so that the baited end hangs out over the water and dangles perhaps six inches above the surface and the set trap underneath.

“That should do it,” Williams says. He turns and begins wading upstream. “We need to make tracks up a ways before we can climb out. We don’t want that beaver smellin’ us. These critters can be mighty intelligent when they take a notion to be.”

There’s a good-sized male beaver in the trap when they return the next morning. Gerald carries it back to camp, where Williams proceeds to demonstrate how to skin and butcher the carcass, then how to stretch the skin onto a hoop he constructs from willow branches and thin strips of rawhide. When he hangs the hooped pelt from a ponderosa branch, the sun shines through the skin and gives it a reddish hue.

“You ever eat beaver flesh?” the trapper asks.

Gerald shakes his head.

“Well, you’re in for a treat,” Old Bill says. “Beaver tastes like beef and even has a little fat in it, unlike venison or antelope. They’re so dry you’ve got to add fat to the pot to make them righteously edible.” He squats next to the fire and reaches for the coffee pot. “With all that grease, beaver flesh doesn’t last long, but it’s good the first day, at any rate. And it’s a nice change from deer or elk or those other hoofed creatures.”

“I understand beaver tail is quite tasty.”

Williams grunts disparagingly. “If you’re craving fat, it’ll pass for it,” he says. “It’s too bland for my tongue. Though that cook of Jeremiah Peabody’s knows what to do with it. Someone brought her some last fall and by the time she was done with it, Peabody said it was like ambrosia.” He shakes his head. “That Chonita is a looker, too. It’s beyond my understanding why she’s not married yet. Waiting for the best proposition, I suppose. A female like her can take her time, be righteously choosy.”

Williams pauses, still holding the coffee pot, staring up into the golden narrow leaf cottonwoods between them and the river. “I knew another one like that once. An Osage gal.” He shakes his head and puts the pot back on the stone next to the fire. “Pretty, too.” He looks at Gerald. “Have you met her?”

“Jeremiah Peabody’s cook?” Gerald shakes his head.

Williams grins mischievously. “Well, you met his daughter, so nobody else matters much now, I reckon.”

Gerald looks away. Suzanna Peabody’s name isn’t something to be bandied about around a campfire.

“Ah, come on now,” the trapper says. “It’s not a thing to be ashamed of, that spark between you. And you can’t deny it was there. I saw it.”

Gerald glances at him, then rises. “I’m to bed,” he says.

Old Bill chuckles knowingly and reaches for the coffee pot again. Gerald’s face tightens. Is the man taking liberties because of the color of his skin, or is he just taking liberties? How dare he talk about Suzanna Peabody in that way! He has no right!

Gerald pulls himself together and spreads out his blankets. He has no rights either. No permission to think of the girl with such a combination of sweetness and longing. And no reason to think he’ll ever have such permission. She may smile that way at every new man she meets. She certainly must meet plenty of them in her father’s parlor. He seems to keep open house.

Despite these obvious facts, Suzanna Peabody’s dark eyes still sparkle in Gerald’s memory as he lays down, covers himself, and tries to force his mind elsewhere, away from the look on her face in that first unguarded moment in her father’s small Taos parlor.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

“So how is it that you knew Gerald Locke Jr. yesterday, even though you had not been formally introduced?” Jeremiah Peabody asks Suzanna the next morning as he cuts into his egg-and-corn-tortilla breakfast.

Suzanna reaches for another tortilla. “You know, Encarnación’s tortillas are so delicious, I’m sure our visitors wouldn’t mind having them for tea instead of wheat rolls.”

“The cost of wheat flour may be high, but it means a great deal to these men to have a semblance of home in the shape of wheat bread, tea, and a pretty woman to serve them,” her father says. “And, as you say, Encarnación’s corn tortillas are well made, so it’s no sacrifice to eat them at our other meals. That young woman is quite a cook. I thank the day she appeared at our doorstop.” He looks up at her with a slight frown. “Unless you have grown weary of tortillas, my dear. In which case—”

“Oh no,” Suzanna says. “I could eat Chonita’s tortillas at every meal and never weary of them.” She pops the last bit into her mouth and lifts her cup of milk. “That and this good cow’s milk that Ramón so thoughtfully brings us.”

“Well, we do pay him for it, although Ramón has also been a great friend to us. Although I have reason to believe that we are no longer the primary attraction for him.” He smiles. “He seems to think Encarnación’s acquaintance is worth cultivating.” Then his eyes narrow. “However, if you think you are going to deflect me from my purpose, you are very sadly mistaken. How is it you know this Gerald Locke?”

Suzanna chuckles as she places the milk back on the table. “I couldn’t help but try,” she says. She looks at her plate. “I— I didn’t want to worry you.”

His head lifts sharply. “Should I have not invited him in? Shall I forbid his return?”

“Oh no!” She looks up in alarm. “He’s a good man who saved me from a very uncomfortable encounter. I was glad to meet him properly.”

“An uncomfortable encounter?” Jeremiah’s hands fall away from his plate and flatten on the edge of the table. “I think you had best start at the beginning.”

His knuckles have whitened by the time Suzanna finishes her story and his compressed lips are one thin angry line. “That Enoch Jones is a man who cannot rise above his station and so resents anyone who looks as if they might do so,” he says angrily. “Or anyone who has already surpassed him.” He takes a deep breath, picks up his knife and fork, and gives Suzanna a sharp look before reapplying himself to his food. “And Gerald Locke Jr. has clearly done so.”

She smiles at him radiantly. “I’m so glad you like him, papá.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So, it’s ‘papá’ now, is it?” He smiles and shakes his head. Then his face sobers. “But please be more careful as you traverse the town, my dear. There may not always be a Mr. Locke nearby to save you from men like Enoch Jones.”

Suzanna sobers. “I know it. I’ve thought about my route that day, and decided on a new path for getting safely to and from the plaza.” Her chin lifts. “But I have no intention of allowing the likes of Enoch Jones to keep me from enjoying my life.”

Her father chuckles, tosses his napkin onto the table, and pushes back his chair. “I have no doubt that is the case,” he says. “Not even I am likely to stop you from achieving your wishes. Are you prepared for your Latin lesson this morning?”

“Of course,” Suzanna says. “But before we begin, I need to check on the courtyard plants. I put straw on the greens last night, to protect them from the frost, and they need to be uncovered.”

“Has the frost reached the courtyard?”

“I thought that it might, so I was worried about the lettuce. I want to keep it going as long as I can. There’s enough for at least another salad or two.”

“And did you find a way to protect your seed potatoes until spring?”

Suzanna’s eyes brighten. “I placed them under the straw, as well. This afternoon I’ll find a dry space for them in the root cellar. It may be difficult to keep those tiny eyes from growing too long before it’s time to plant them.”

Jeremiah smiles at her. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

But her plants aren’t enough to keep Suzanna Peabody from thinking about Gerald Locke at odd times over the next few days. The way he looked into her face, didn’t let his gaze drift lower. The shy but somehow confident smile. The broad forehead above his gray eyes. The tone of his voice as he spoke to her father: low-timbered, respectful, self assured. There’s something about the way the man carries himself, a kind of firm gentleness.

She wonders what he’ll decide to do during the coming trapping season. There are groups going up to the Platte River country. At least that’s what their leaders are telling the government officials. They’re claiming that they’ll head north to trap outside Mexico’s boundaries. But word is they intend to sneak back across the border, then move south, all the way to the Gila’s rich beaver country. Somehow, she doesn’t think Mr. Locke would misrepresent his intentions in that way. He just doesn’t seem the kind of man who would intentionally deceive others.

He seemed interested in her potato project, Suzanna reflects as she picks pieces of straw from between the leaves of loose-leaf lettuce. He had leaned toward her a little, his gray eyes on her face as she explained how she planned to overwinter the pieces Carlos Beaubien gave her. She smiles a little to herself as she reenters the house, thinking again of that broad forehead, that kind-looking mouth. She doesn’t pause to think that she knows virtually nothing about him.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5

But there’s still the matter of how he’ll spend his winter, whether he’ll plunge into the world of fur trapping or try to find some other way to earn his keep. He’s thinking about Ewing Young’s offer as he wanders Taos plaza two days later, with one eye out for the tall girl in American clothing. He idly contemplates a blanket covered with fat pumpkins, then glances up and sees Ewing Young striding diagonally across the plaza. A tall thin buckskin-clad man with long red hair in disheveled braids stalks beside him. The man gestures wildly and his nasal high-pitched voice echoes off the adobe buildings.

When Young sees Gerald, a relieved look crosses his long face. He slows as he reaches Gerald, although his companion is still talking.

“And he’s workin’ on a new-fangled trap that might hold some promise, if—” the man is saying.

Young puts his hand on the red-haired man’s arm. “Here’s someone you’ll be interested in knowing,” he says. “Gerald Locke Jr., meet Old Bill Williams. He came in yesterday with that bunch that’s surveying the Santa Fe Trail.”

There’d been talk around the campfire the night before about the Santa Fe Trail Survey team the U.S. Congress has sent out under Major Sibley, but Gerald had assumed they’d all be in uniform. He looks at the buckskin-clad man in surprise.

Williams snorts. “Expecting a little more dudin’ up?”

“I thought the survey was an army project,” Gerald says.

Williams shrugs. “They had to have an expert in the country to guide ’em.”

“You’ll find that Old Bill here isn’t shy about his talents,” Young says drily. “Fortunately, he usually manages to keep to subjects he’s got some knowledge of.”

Williams snorts. “Know more’n you about trapping!” he says. “And Injuns!”

“So you say.” Young’s eyes crinkle with amusement. He turns to Gerald. “Williams here has lived a lot of years in Indian country and thinks he knows all about it. Fact is, he’s so damn confident that he goes out trapping on his own in places where the rest of us hunt in groups in case of Indian attacks.”

Williams grunts. “I don’t plan on gettin’ sent to the other side any time soon, not ’til I feel like takin’ a few with me.”

Young grins and shakes his head. Then he glances toward the mercantile behind Gerald. “I need to go in and talk to Baillio.” He nods to Old Bill, then Gerald. “I expect we’ll be meetin’ again.”

Gerald and Williams watch Young duck through the store’s heavy wooden door frame, then stand in the dusty plaza and consider the vendors and the goods spread in front of them. Williams glances up at the turquoise sky, but Gerald’s eyes stray across the plaza, still watching for the tall girl with the American hairstyle.

“So,” Williams says abruptly. “You new to nuevo mexico?”

“I came in with Young’s most recent trade caravan.” Gerald brings his eyes back to the older man’s face. He’s probably about forty. Older than most of the Americans Gerald’s met here so far.

“You lookin’ to trap?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Gerald looks around the plaza. Still no sign of the girl. He looks at the red-haired man. “I’m still trying to sort out my options.”

“Well, that sounds like a mighty tall order.” Old Bill jabs a thumb in the direction of the nearest taberna. “Like Ewing says, I know about trappin’ and a few other things besides. If you’re lookin’ for advice about the lay of the land, I can share some pearls of wisdom for the price of a tangle foot.”

“Tangle foot?”

“A drink. Taos Lightnin’. Whisky.”

Gerald chuckles. “It’s a deal.”

They’re a long while in the bar and Gerald buys more than one drink, but he does learn a good deal: which of the Americans has the most experience trapping, who buys the resulting furs and at what prices, which groups are forming for the coming season. What Williams says accords with and expands on what Gerald’s already picked up from the campfire talk, so he’s inclined to believe this scrawny man with the long red braids.

Williams holds his liquor well, too. Three whiskeys in short succession have no impact on his speech or the brightness of his brown eyes. The only change Gerald can detect is that the mountain man’s sentences become longer and more complex, his diction more precise.

“And now that I’ve told you the sum and total of all my most profound knowledge about the art and technique of beaver trapping, let us proceed to more essential information,” Williams says. “Where is it you hail from, young man?”

“Missouri,” Gerald says. “I—”

“Ah, Missouri,” Old Bill says. He leans back. “I also consider myself to be of Missouri, though my natal state is North Carolina, of all the benighted places to be born. But when I was seven years old, my paterfamilias hightailed it for greener pastures and I’ve always been grateful for his sense of adventure. We landed far enough away from St. Louie to keep the stench of its sinful ways from my mother’s nostrils but close enough to take advantage of the fur market when we needed cash money.” He takes another sip of whiskey. “I was just a young whippersnapper when my daddy showed me how to set my first trap line and it sure did give me a taste of what it is to be independent. Then when I was sixteen I took me a notion to go live with the Osages and Christianize them.” He shrugs and grins. “That was most righteously green of me. In the end, they taught me more than I ever taught them, that’s for damn certain.”

Abruptly, the mountain man pushes away from the table. “Well, that was a mighty fine respite, that was, and we’ve had ourselves a healthy palaver, but I think maybe we could do with a feed and I know where to get it. Have you had the pleasure of meeting Jeremiah Peabody yet?”

Gerald shakes his head.

“Come along with me and I’ll introduce you. He’s always got a feed going. The man’s got a good cook and has the righteous sense to keep her busy.”

Gerald nods. He’ll finally learn where Peabody’s is. A restaurant of some kind, apparently. But by the time they’re halfway across the village, the loquacious trapper has set him straight on that, too.

According to Williams, Peabody is a New England man who came into the country around ’09 and set himself up as a teacher and scribe so the Spaniards would let him stay in the country legally. He holds open house for the trappers when they’re in town, as long as they aren’t liquored up when they arrive.

Gerald smiles slightly at this, thinking of the amount of whisky Williams consumed at the taberna, but holds his tongue. The man doesn’t appear to be drunk. Perhaps that will suffice.

And it does. The house is built in a U-shape. A gated adobe wall blocks the open end, but the wooden gate stands invitingly open. As Gerald follows Williams into the plant-filled courtyard beyond, a tall thin man with a black chin beard comes out of a short wooden door set into the adobe wall to their left. A Mexican man chops wood in the far corner.

“Well, Mr. Williams!” the man with the beard says. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir!” He gives Gerald a questioning glance.

“Jeremiah Peabody, you old scholar, you!” Williams says. “How are you?” He jerks a thumb at Gerald. “This here’s a young man I think you might wanta know, name of Gerald Locke the younger. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, according to Ewing. More importantly, he’s got the good sense to listen to my pearls of wisdom.”

Jeremiah Peabody chuckles and gives Gerald an amused glance. “That would imply that he has excellent manners and the patience of Job.”

“He might even have the patience to listen to you!” Old Bill laughs.

“And if I know you, William, you have neglected to eat since you rose this morning, although you have probably imbibed at least a drink or two.” Peabody turns back toward the house, waving them after him. “Come in, come in!”

Williams and Gerald follow him past a well, two small garden beds, and the man chopping wood. They duck through the door and move past a kitchen area, then down a short hall.

Jeremiah Peabody waves them into a fire-lit room crowded with tall bookcases and men sitting on carved wooden benches and cushion-topped chests. A narrow-shouldered blonde man and a slim dark-haired girl face each other in the center of the room.

The girl’s back is to the door. As Gerald enters, she says “Oh! Thank you, monsieur!” and the young man glances at the door and sees Jeremiah Peabody. His face flushes guiltily. There’s a general chuckle from the other men in the room as the girl turns, smiling, toward the door, a cloth covered package in her hands.

“Well, Mr. Bill Williams!” she says. “Hello!” Then her eyes touch Gerald’s face and her black eyes widen. Her smile deepens. “Hello,” she says.

Jeremiah Peabody looks puzzled. “Have you met Mr. Locke already, my dear?”

She shakes her head, eyes glinting with amusement. “Not formally, no.”

Peabody turns to Gerald. “My daughter, Suzanna.” Then, to Suzanna. “Mr. Gerald Locke Jr., newly arrived.” He glances at Gerald. “With Ewing Young’s train, I believe?”

Gerald nods, but his eyes are on the girl. “It’s my pleasure,” Gerald says.

She bobs a curtsey, her hands still full, eyes on his.

“And what is it you have there, my dear?” her father asks.

Suzanna lifts a corner of the cloth. “Look what Monsieur Beaubien brought me!”

Jeremiah Peabody frowns at the thin young man with the sharp nose who stands facing him, looking doubtful.

Peabody’s black eyes narrow and his gaze sweeps the room. “I know girls here marry at an early age,” he says, his tone clipped. “But my daughter is too young for gifts from eligible men.”

Beaubien shakes his head, spreading his hands. “They are merely the potatoes of Ireland,” he says in a polished French accent. “And most inedible, I assure you. I meant nothing by them.”

Jeremiah turns to Suzanna, his eyebrows raised. “Potatoes?”

Suzanna nods, eyes shining. “Mr. Young’s cook was going to throw them out, but Monsieur Beaubien thought I might be able to get them to grow here.” She unties one corner of the cloth. “Look, they already have eyes starting to form.” She lifts her chin at her father, her eyes just slightly defiant. “It’s a fair trade. I’ll give him some of my first crop.”

“Though she’s promised not to cook them herself,” Beaubien says mischievously. “I’ll let someone else have that honor.”

Jeremiah shakes his head and permits himself a small smile. “Very well. We’ll consider it a commercial transaction and leave it at that.”

Suzanna smiles triumphantly and carries her treasure out of the room. Old Bill crosses to the fireplace and turns, warming his long buckskin-clad legs. “Like you got a choice, Jeremiah,” he chuckles. “Who’s gonna tell that girl she can’t do what she’s already decided on doin’?”

“Must take after her daddy or somethin’,” a big broad-faced young man observes from the adobe seat that forms the sill of the multi-paned window overlooking the street. The panes are made of milk-white sheets of mica and the resulting muted light gives the room a sleepy, church-like glow that’s balanced by the color of the cushions on the chests and the light of the fire.

Jeremiah grins ruefully and crosses to the tea table in the right-hand corner. “Did you all get enough to eat?” he asks. “I’m sure you will be wanting something, William.” He lifts a small china plate. “What’s the news from Sibley’s survey expedition?” Then he turns. “I apologize, Mr. Locke. Have you met Carlos Beaubien and Ceran St. Vrain? And of course you know Ewing Young here in the corner, guarding the table for us.”

Young lifts a hand in acknowledgement, and Gerald nods to him and then the other men. They nod politely, then go on with their talk. Gerald drops into a chair near the door and tries not to watch it for the girl’s return. The way her eyes widened in apparent delight at the sight of him, the way she looked directly into his face. She’s unlike any girl he’s ever encountered.

When she returns, she has a book in her hand. The conversation stops when she enters and the men all watch her cross the room to Ceran St. Vrain in the window seat. She hands him the small brown volume. He takes it, looks at the spine, and shakes his head. Suzanna laughs as he hands it back to her. “You can face Apaches and Mouache Utes, but Samuel Johnson is too much for you?” she teases.

“You can face Samuel Johnson, but a skillet and oven are too much for you?” he answers.

Williams barks with laughter as Charles Beaubien chortles, “He caught you out that time!” But the girl only chuckles, crosses to a bookcase, and inserts the book in a row of similarly-bound volumes.

“We all have our strengths and weaknesses,” Jeremiah Peabody says, smiling. “While she serves the food we eat, her training is in literature and horticulture, not cookery.”

Suzanna tilts her head, gives him a small smile, and crosses to the table. “Shall I ask Encarnación for more tea and rolls?” she asks. She swings around, looking at the men in the room. “I suspect Mr. Williams and Mr. Locke have not partaken as much as they might like to.” She smiles mischievously at Old Bill. “You, of course, are always hungry for more of Encarnación’s rolls.” She turns to Gerald. “And you? Are you still hungry?”

Then she looks at his hands, empty in his lap. “Why, you haven’t eaten at all, have you?” She picks up a small plate, places two rolls, a piece of soft white cheese, and a napkin on it, and crosses the room to him. “That tea water is cold. I’ll bring more in a minute, along with some fresh bread.”

As Gerald takes the plate, he looks up into her eyes. Again, the straightforward quality of her gaze strikes him. There is nothing flirtatious in this girl. Yet he can barely move his lips to acknowledge her attention. “Thank you,” is all he can manage to say.

~ ~ ~ ~

Gerald sits beside the campfire that night long after the others have gone to their bedrolls, and gazes thoughtfully into the flames. Other than Enoch Jones, everyone he’s met in the West has made no reference to the color of his skin. It’s almost as if they can’t see that he’s a shade darker than the most sun-burnt of any of the Americans or Frenchmen here. He chews thoughtfully on his lower lip. That might not be true. A few of the French trappers, exposed for decades to the elements, are darker than he is. And, of course, the natives. Although some of them have both Spanish and Indian parents, so they’re also of mixed race.

For example, the girl Suzanna appears to be the daughter of Peabody and an Indian woman. Or perhaps half-Indian? There’s something about her, a creaminess to her coloring, that sets her apart. His mind strays, thinking about her height, the way she bears herself so confidently in her strangely old-fashioned American clothes. The way her eyes look straight into his—

Then he shakes himself and goes back to the original question. The question of his own parentage, whether he should be more upfront about his race. Even though he’s already settled the issue for the time being, he finds it rising again. Perhaps because of the girl? He pushes the thought away and considers. No one seems at all interested in his background. Although Jeremiah Peabody might be, if Suzanna takes a liking to him.

Gerald catches himself. The girl clearly has many admirers. It isn’t just her father’s table that brings the trappers and merchants to his parlor, men of standing and resources like Ewing Young. Even if Gerald’s parentage isn’t an issue, what chance does a poor man have against men of substance like Young or someone with the experience and way with words of Old Bill? He’d need a good deal more money than he currently has to even begin thinking of speaking to a young woman like that. A girl who reads Johnson but can’t cook. It would require a house with room for books. And a cook.

Gerald shakes his head. It will doubtless be a long while before he’s in a position to offer such a thing. She’ll have found someone else by then. Someone who can give her all she’s worthy of, long before he can even think of approaching her. Besides, he’d have to tell her about his father, about his race.

He stands, stretches, and heads to his bedroll. He knows it’s foolish to think of her, but the last image across his mind as he drifts into sleep is Suzanna Peabody’s face, her eyes widening with surprise and something akin to delight. It hasn’t even occurred to him that he knows virtually nothing about her.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

The train trundles uneventfully southwest after that. They’re on the Cimarron Cut Off, so the only real issue is lack of water, a lack that gives Gerald a new appreciation for the wide and steady flow of the Missouri River. And the taste of fresh water, which they don’t experience until they reach the springs near a rocky outcropping unimaginatively called Point of Rocks.

From here, the Sangre de Cristo mountains break blue across the western horizon. Men and animals are travel weary and dusty, but Young doesn’t give them more than a day to rest and clean up. He begins almost immediately to divide the horses and mules into two groups: those who’ll tolerate a pack and those who won’t.

The second morning finds the one who will being fitted with loads of merchandise to be carried over the mountains to Don Fernando de Taos. The other, smaller group will tow the remaining merchandise in the now half-empty wagons to Santa Fe, where the Mexican government officials will levy a tariff on the goods. Apparently there’s no such tariff levied in Taos and this division of goods is common practice. Certainly, the teamsters seem to consider it routine.

“I guess you’ll be wantin’ to head straight to Taos,” Young says to Gerald as they watch the packs being loaded. “Since you’ve got business there.”

“I do, if you don’t need me with the wagons,” Gerald answers.

Young nods. “I’ll meet you and the others there and pay you all off,” he says. “You can find me at my store or at Peabody’s.”

Gerald nods. “That’ll be fine,” he says. “Where—”

A scuffle breaks out just then between two horses and a teamster, and Young heads toward them, leaving Gerald with his question unasked. He shrugs. He’ll learn soon enough how to find his way around Taos, locate Young’s mercantile, or this Peabody’s place of business.

He moves out with the pack train the next morning. They head due west, the animals strung together with ropes in long groups of ten, a man at the head of each group and one halfway back. Charlie is master now and he tells Gerald to settle in beside the middle of the second string, the one led by Enoch Jones.

The scout steers the mule train toward a gap in the hills. As they move west, the grass thickens. The late summer rains have greened the landscape nicely. Yellow sunflowers brighten the ground wherever there’s a bit of an indentation to hold the moisture. Gerald looks at them approvingly.

The next day, the grassy slopes begin to tilt upward and the sunflowers shrink in size and number. Juniper bushes scatter the landscape and fill the warm afternoon with a sharp urine smell. Farther up, there’s a type of tree Gerald’s never seen before: a kind of resinous pine, its trunk gnarled as if it’s been wind blasted for at least a hundred years.

The route moves uphill, along the side of a rocky slope, and the path narrows. Gerald focuses on his work. There’s not room for both man and mule, and he drops into the trees below the path to give the animals room to maneuver. Dirt and small rocks break under his feet and dribble down the slope to the gully below. He has to work to stay in line with his string.

Then the trail ahead becomes little more than a rocky outcropping. Gerald’s string of mules comes to a halt as the animals ahead of them edge cautiously across the ledge. The mules bunch together on the narrow path and snuffle at each other as if commiserating on their lot. Gerald scrambles up the bank to them, then farther up the slope to get out of their way but be within reach if they need him.

At the sound of rocks skittering down the bank, Enoch Jones turns and glares. “No time t’ be explorin’,” he growls.

“There’s not room on the path for both man and beast,” Gerald points out. The dirt moves under his feet and he clutches at a juniper branch for support. “I’ll be down as soon as we start moving again.”

Jones scowls and yanks on his lead mule’s chin strap, forcing the animal’s muzzle toward him. The mule pulls its head back, baring its teeth, and Jones whips the free end of the lead rope across its nose. The animal snorts angrily and jerks away, but this puts its hooves off the trail, scrambling in the dirt and rocks. The pack on its back tilts precariously.

Jones is pulled forward by the mule’s weight. Just as his feet hit the edge of the trail, the mule lurches backward down the slope, wrenching the rope from Jones’ hands. He drops to the ground and his right foot twists awkwardly under his left leg. “Whoa, damn you!” he yells.

But it’s too late. As the lead mule slides down the bank, the animals linked to it are pulled inexorably toward the edge of the trail. They brace themselves, their eyes rolling.

Gerald slips gingerly down the bank, trying to move as smoothly as possible to keep from knocking gravel onto the trail and frightening the animals even more.

“Whoa, now,” he says soothingly. “Whoa now.”

The mule nearest him turns its head, its eyes wild with fright. Gerald stretches to touch the mule’s neck, then moves cautiously to its head. He grabs the animal’s halter and peers over its shoulder and down the hillside. “Whoa now,” he says again.

Fortunately, the lead mule has found its footing. It stands, huffing irritably, on a small flat space below, its pack still intact but tilted to one side. The four mules strung behind it are stranded in an uneven row between it and the trail above. They scuffle rocky dirt anxiously as they try to find secure footing. They look more puzzled than frightened.

Gerald pats the mule he’s standing next to soothingly and moves past it, grateful that it and the four still behind it stalled when they did.

He looks at Jones, who’s still on the ground, his hands on his twisted ankle. “No harm done,” Gerald says.

Just then, Charlie appears on the trail ahead. “Ya’ll all right back there?” he calls. As he gets closer, Jones pushes himself upright, his right foot carefully lifted from the ground, his face twisted in fury.

“You give me green help, this is what happens,” Jones jabs a thumb toward Gerald. “He was too busy wandering uphill to keep ’em in line.” He puts his foot on the ground and winces. “An’ now I can’t walk.”

Charlie gives Jones a long look, then turns to Gerald. “On slopes like this, it’s best if ya stay below ’em, when ya ken,” he says. “Or directly behind. They get nervous when there’s somethin’ on the hillside above. Think yer a catamount or somethin’.”

Gerald nods. There’s no point in pointing out that Jones triggered this particular nervousness.

The scout moves to the edge of the path and peers down. “Looks like nothin’s lost.” He turns to consider Jones’ foot, then Gerald. “Think ya ken lead ’em up? Jones is gonna need to favor that foot a mite.”

Gerald nods and maneuvers around the other men to find a way down the hillside to the lead mule. As he passes, Jones mutters, “Damn green hand!” and Charlie answers evenly, “A man ken’t do what he ain’t been told, now ken he?”

Once all of the string is back on the path, Gerald and Charlie straighten the lead mule’s pack and tighten it down again, then Charlie returns to his own string and Gerald keeps the mule steady until it’s their turn to make their way across the outcropping.

Jones limps behind, alternately cursing damn mules and green hands. He soon falls behind the entire mule train, so Gerald doesn’t have to listen to him for long. But Jones is still fuming when he limps into camp that night, well after everyone else.

“Coulda been killed,” he growls, tossing aside the stick he’s been using as a crutch. He sinks onto a large piece of sandstone and begins loosening his bootlaces. “There’s Apaches out there, ya know.”

“There was nothin’ for ya t’ ride,” Charlie says mildly from across the fire. “And we weren’t that far ahead.”

Jones grunts and reaches down to pull off his boot, but the angle is wrong and he wrenches the swollen ankle out of position. “Hell!” he yelps.

“Want some help with that?” Gerald asks, moving toward him.

“Stay away from me!” Jones snarls.

“You know, Jones, if you’d been a little easier on that mule, she wouldn’t of jumped,” says the man who’d been leading the set of mules directly behind Jones and Gerald’s string. He glances at Jones, then Charlie, then the fire. “Looked to me like she was pretty calm ’til you slapped her muzzle with that rope.”

Charlie looks first at Jones, then Gerald. Jones glares at the man on the other side of the flames, who ignores him, but Gerald returns Charlie’s gaze steadily.

“You don’t know nothin’,” Jones growls. He glares at Charlie. “I got stuck with a idiot mule and a damn green hand. What’d ya expect?” The scout doesn’t respond and Jones turns his scowl on Gerald. “You green hands come out here and think ya know everything there is t’ know, an’ ya don’t know shit!” He moves his foot impatiently, then flinches and reaches for his swollen ankle.

“If ya wrap that up good and tight, it’ll help bring that swellin’ down,” Charlie says. “We ken redistribute goods in the morning and set up somethin’ fer ya to ride on fer tomorrow, at least.”

Jones nods sullenly. “In the meantime, someone could bring me some food,” he grumbles and Charlie nods to the other stringer, who rises quietly to make the arrangements.

Early the next day, with Jones riding at the head of the mule train, Charlie and his men drop into the south end of a valley thick with ripe grass. A small sparkling stream winds its way through the valley floor, heading north through more grassland. Mountains glimmer at the valley’s head, a good ten miles away. The bank of the little creek below has broken off in places, exposing a soil so black and fertile that Gerald’s fingers itch to run through it. Now this is land a man could raise a crop on.

He looks up at the almost-black fir-covered mountains in front of them, then northwest to taller, stonier peaks, the largest a massive, curved wall of rock. They’ve been climbing the last two days. The growing season here would be short, and the winters strong.

But still— Gerald looks down at the thick grass on the valley floor. Cattle would do well here. If a man built them adequate shelter, they could feed all through the cold season on hay harvested from these rich bottom lands.

But he has no money for land and the outlay needed to raise cattle or anything else. And this is Indian country. It’s an impossible dream. Even so, as the mule train moves into the trees on the other side of the valley, toward what Charlie says is Apache Pass, Gerald finds himself glancing back toward the bright trickle of water running steadily north.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

When Gerald tops the low rise and sees the mule-drawn wagons strung out along a rutted track across the prairie, it takes him a moment to adjust. After five days walking westward, he is still absorbing the healing beauty of the wind bending the grass, the bulk of buffalo in the distance. The sweep of the land has been a balm to his eyes. So the eight mule-drawn wagons jolting along the rutted trail below are a bit of a shock.

A loose collection of mules and horses meander to one side. Gerald stops, considering. Approaching the train is the sensible thing to do. It’s pure luck that he hasn’t encountered any Indians so far. But he isn’t quite ready to give up the silent grassland, regardless of the risk to his light brown skin.

Then a long-haired man with a wind-reddened face canters a chestnut-colored horse out from the wagon train. A firearm is braced in the crook of his right arm. Gerald moves toward him, down the slope.

The man on the chestnut reins in at a safe distance, rifle still in a position to be easily lifted and fired. Gerald stops walking and lifts his hands away from his sides, palms out.

“Ya’ll stranded?” the man calls.

Gerald takes off his hat, runs his hand through his curly black hair, and shakes his head. “Headed west.”

The man turns his head and spits. “Lose yer ride?”

“I figure my feet are more dependable.”

The man snorts. “And slower.”

“They also give me a lower profile, out of Indian sight.”

The other man nods begrudgingly, then jerks his head toward the caravan. “Wagon master says come on in, he’ll trade ya for a mount ’n some food.”

“Where are you headed?” Gerald asks.

“Santa Fe, where else?”

“I’m hoping to reach Don Fernando de Taos.”

“Same thing, pretty much. North o’ Santa Fe a couple o’ days.” The man jerks his head toward the wagon train again. “Young’s got a mercantile there.”

“Young?”

“The train master. Ewing Young. He’s been merchanting, bringin’ in goods from Missouri, selling ’em, then goin’ back fer more.” The chestnut stirs restlessly. “Come on in an’ he’ll tell ya himself.”

If he refuses, they’ll suspect him of trouble and who knows where that will lead? Gerald nods and follows the horseman toward the wagons.

As he gets closer, a tall powerfully built man wearing fringed buckskins and a broad-brimmed felt hat walks out from the lead wagon. In his early thirties, the man’s air of command is enhanced by intelligent brown eyes under a high forehead, a hawkish nose, and a mouth that looks as if it rarely smiles.

“Well now, it’s not often we find someone walkin’ the trail,” he says in a Tennessee drawl. He looks steadily into Gerald’s face.

“A horse seemed like an unnecessary expense and more than likely to make me a target,” Gerald says.

“It’s a slow way to travel, though,” the other man observes.

Gerald glances toward the wagon trundling past at the pace of a slow-walking mule. The way it lurches over the rutted track says it’s heavy with goods. “If I had what you’re carrying, it would be,” he says.

The man sticks out his hand. “I’m Ewing Young, owner of this outfit.” He jerks a thumb toward the rider who’d met Gerald on the hill. “This here’s Charlie Westin, my scout.”

Gerald nods at the scout and reaches to shake Ewing Young’s hand. “I’m Gerald Locke Jr., hoping to one day own an outfit.” He grins, gray eyes crinkling in his square brown face. “Though not a wagon outfit.”

Young chuckles. “Well, out here just about anything’s possible.” The last of the wagons trundles past and he gestures at it. “Come along to camp and we’ll talk about how you can get started on that.”

Gerald falls into step with the older man, cursing himself for a fool. He doesn’t need to tell his intentions to everyone he meets. It comes from not speaking to another living being in the last five days, he thinks ruefully. Solitude makes a man too quick to speech. How often has his father repeated, “Words can be a burden”? He’d do well to heed that idea. Especially until he knows the character of the men he’s fallen in with.

So when the small train stops that night, Gerald says nothing of joining his father or of his desire for land. That he’s from Missouri and going west to try his fortune are all that Young needs to know.

It seems to be all he wants to know. The men with him are silent, clearly playing subordinate roles, and the wagon master does the talking, mostly about himself and the part his merchandise is playing in opening up the Santa Fe trade.

“It’s slow goin’ though,” he says. “Now, trappin’s a way to make yourself some real money. But it’s a risky business. You’ve got to throw in with the right men and steer clear of the Mexican officials as much as you can.” He grimaces and shakes his head. “The Mexican government’s as changeable as the weather when it comes to what’s allowed and what’s not.” He takes a sip from his tin cup of coffee. “The best way to do it, is to find a seasoned man to work with. Someone who can show you the ropes and knows whose hands to grease.”

Gerald raises an eyebrow. “New Mexico sounds like it’s not much different from Missouri.”

Young chuckles and looks into the fire. “Oh, it’s different all right. For one thing, the women are more forgiving. And the houses the people live in are like nothin’ you’ve ever seen. But government’s government no matter where you go, so the main thing is to steer clear of it as much as possible. That’s why I like Taos. It’s a good stretch from the official center of things. And it’s within strikin’ distance of good fur country. Trappers bring in the furs and I trade for ’em. Do a little trapping myself, for that matter.” He swings his head, eyes on Gerald’s face. “But Charlie says you’re headin’ there, not Santa Fe. Where’d you learn about Taos, anyhow?”

Gerald shrugs. “I don’t rightly know,” he lies. “Someone passing through, I suppose.”

And that’s all it takes. Young gives him a sharp look, then nods as if he approves. “We could use another man on the remuda,” he says.

Gerald feels something like hope stir in his chest. Could it be this easy?

But then he turns his head and catches the flat contemptuous gaze of a big man with long, matted dirty-blond hair, who’s leaning against a nearby wagon bed. He knows. In spite of Gerald’s light skin that could pass for a tanned white man, and the red highlights in his wavy black hair, he knows.

Rebellion stirs. Gerald’s eyes tighten and he looks deliberately at Ewing Young. “Remuda?” he asks.

Young gestures toward the herd of mules and horses grazing beside the wide, dusty track that breaks across the prairie. “What in New Mexico they call the extra mounts we’ve brought along as spares. I could do with another herder. Not much in wages, but bread and board and a mount.”

Gerald’s lips twitch as he remembers the Missouri farmer who refused his back wages and predicted he’d be back within a month. He looks into Ewing Young’s eyes. “I can do that,” he says.

As he unrolls his bedding that night, Gerald shakes his head. His father’s letter said a man isn’t judged by his color out here. Is it possible that it’s not even noticed? Then he tamps down the tingle of hope. Some men do notice and judge. The dirty-haired blond man with the narrow blue eyes certainly seems to suspect something. Can somehow tell that, along with the Irish and Cherokee blood in Gerald’s veins, there’s blackness in there, too.

Gerald scowls. Somehow, that piece of his heritage outweighs everything else. But not, apparently, for everyone, he reminds himself. And Young is the boss, not the man with the sneer. He’ll just have to wait and see. To work for a man who accepts him as just any other man would be a new experience in itself.

The work is simple enough: keep the loose horses and mules alongside the wagon train, spell a teamster when it’s needed, brush down whatever mount he’s ridden that day. The days are long and, when sundown comes, no one’s in much of a mood for talk.

There’s also guard duty. Each man takes a shift every three nights, watching to make sure the animals don’t stray, or that interested coyotes or wolves don’t get too close. No one speaks of the possibility of human interest in the resting animals, but there’s always that danger, as well.

But it’s another week before there’s any sign of other humans on the prairie. Young’s merchandise train bumps steadily along the dusty Santa Fe Trail, the grass beside it growing ever more golden-brown as the autumn heat bakes the ground, the loose herd wandering a little farther off trail each day as they search for tender shoots in the occasional water seep. Gerald follows their wanderings on his plodding horse, both of them half-asleep in the warm fall sun.

Enoch Jones, the man who’d scowled when Gerald and Young were negotiating Gerald’s pay, is also with the remuda, but he’s made a point of steering clear of Gerald, so Gerald’s lost his edge of concern about the big man. He’s stretching himself sleepily, trying to stay awake, when there’s a sudden hail from the head wagon.

Gerald looks up to see Ewing Young half-standing on the wagon seat. He’s leaning out from the wagon and rotating his arms over his head, signaling the herders to move the remuda closer to the train. Charlie’s on his horse beside the wagon, his head turned to focus on a low ridge to the south.

As the spare animals move closer to the train, Young swings onto a horse and rides out to meet the herders, the scout behind him.

“Charlie tells me we’re goin’ to have company shortly,” Young says. “We’ll make a halt up on that rise ahead.” He gestures toward the loose animals. “When we do, I want all these hobbled or staked close by so they can’t be run off.”

“Comanche?” someone asks.

Young shakes his head. “Pawnee. They should be friendly. They don’t look painted up and he didn’t see any war shields.” He turns to gaze at the ridge to the south. A line of men on ponies is strung out along its top, facing the train. They could be trees, they’re so still. Young turns back to his men. “Go cautious, though. No gun waving. No heroics.”

Enoch Jones growls “Coward,” and there’s a low mutter from the men at the back of the group.

His mount moves restlessly, but Young just turns to his scout. “Charlie, why don’t you go see what they want. Raise both hands comin’ back if they’re lookin’ to trade.”

The scout’s face tightens, but he nods and turns the chestnut’s head. They all watch silently as he trots toward the waiting Indians. When he reaches sign-language distance, half a dozen yards below the ridge, there’s a long tense moment. Charlie moves his hands, then one of the Pawnee moves his. Finally, Charlie turns and begins to trot back, both hands up and waving.

The tension goes out of the group. The herders scatter to gather the remuda and follow the wagons up the trail. When the train stops, the teamsters leave their mules in their traces but the herders vault from their mounts to hobble or stake out the spares. When Gerald’s finished his work, he heads for the train, where the teamsters are pulling boxes of goods from the wagon beds.

Young moves along the little train, confirming what should be displayed and what left covered. “No liquor,” he says as he passes the third wagon. “Move those jugs farther back and cover up that barrel. We don’t need them to know we’ve got all that on board.”

“Too good for ’em anyway,” a teamster chuckles. “Let ’em go t’ Taos for some lightning.”

Young grins. “Make sure it’s well covered,” he says.

Gerald watches in fascination as the Pawnee canter toward the train. Their ponies are full of energy and seem to respond to the slightest touch. The men have no hair on their faces at all, whiskers or eyebrows. Gerald tries not to stare. The sides of their heads are also shaved, leaving a mop of hair and feathers on top. This has been stiffened with something that glints red in the sun, and arranged so it curves up and out over the men’s foreheads like the prow of a ship. Ridges of hair run from this puff toward the back of the warriors’ heads, then hang down their backs in a kind of braided tail. Silver and brass earrings dangle from the Pawnees’ ears.

The Indians vault off their horses and stalk alongside the wagons, looking imperiously at the goods Young’s men have pulled from the boxes. The cloth shirts the warriors are wearing with their buckskin leggings say the Pawnee have traded before. The shirts are weighted down with necklaces of shells and beads.

But it won’t do to stare. After all, Gerald’s seen Indians before, in the Missouri settlements. They aren’t a brand new phenomenon. But they seem different out here, somehow. More at home.

Certainly more confident. A tall young man strides up to Gerald and reaches toward the tooled leather scabbard at Gerald’s waist and the carved wooden handle of the knife protruding from it. Gerald starts to flinch away, then catches himself and forces himself still. He raises his eyebrows and stares inquiringly into the man’s face. The Pawnee points his index fingers into the air, then begins crossing his hands and swinging them up and back, in a kind of arch.

“He’s wantin’ to trade for yer knife,” Charlie says from behind him.

As Gerald turns toward Charlie, the Indian reaches out and pulls Gerald’s knife from its sheath. Gerald’s hand clamps instinctively on the man’s wrist. “Leave it alone!” he snaps.

“Easy now,” Charlie cautions. “Ya hafta agree it’s a right purty thing.”

Gerald turns to the Pawnee and holds out his hand. The man lays the knife in Gerald’s palm. The ten inch double-edged steel blade gleams in the prairie sun. The knife guard is well balanced and solid, the finely carved maple handle cool to the touch. Gerald’s fingers curve around it protectively.

“My father made this for me,” Gerald says. He looks at Charlie. “I won’t trade it.”

Charlie nods and turns to the Pawnee. His hands gesture rapidly and the man looks again at the knife, then into Gerald’s face. He nods, looks at Charlie, moves his own hands in a few fluid gestures, then turns and is gone.

“This talking with the hands is hard to get used to,” Gerald says. “What did you say?”

“That it was made by yer father fer you only, an’ its medicine would be bad fer anyone who takes it away from ya.”

Gerald grins. “He swallowed that?”

“He said it’s good for a man to own such a thing from his ancestors and yer a wise man to protect it.”

“Thanks Charlie. I appreciate it.” Gerald looks down at the knife again, then slips it back into its sheath. He grins. “Guess I’d better try to learn some sign language.”

It’s another eight days before they see more Indians. They’re Kiowa this time, and they also want to trade. Ewing Young agrees and again orders his men to cover the liquor in the third wagon and place a guard on it. “That bourbon isn’t intended for the likes of them,” he says, turning away. He looks at Charlie. “In fact, let’s put all the trade goods up front by the lead wagon.”

But the Kiowa don’t seem at all interested in the third wagon. The older men cluster around the trade goods while the younger men wander freely along the rest of the wagons, stopping now and then to chat in sign language with a teamster or herder, or standing to gaze at the hobbled horses and mules nearby.

Gerald hasn’t been assigned guard duty, but he happens to be passing the fourth wagon when the shoving starts. Enoch Jones staggers to one side and his spine scrapes against the wagon wheel. He comes up in a crouch, long bone-handled knife at the ready. Steel flashes in the hand of the long-haired teenage Kiowa who pushed him, and the men standing guard on the liquor wagon, Charlie included, form a silent circle around the combatants.

Gerald glances toward the third wagon. A younger Indian, no more than a boy, is climbing over the tailgate, his yellow-painted leather moccasins braced on the rim of the big wheels as he leans to push the wagon’s canvas cover to one side.

“Hah!” Gerald shouts. Startled, the youngster looks toward him. Gerald laughs. “Good try!” He waves his hands as he walks toward the wagon, shooing the boy away. The boy looks toward the combatants, shrugs, pushes his long black hair away from his face, and hops down. The wagon guards turn to look. They grin sheepishly, then move back into position.

The teenager who’d pushed Jones glances toward them, then tosses his knife into the dirt and lifts his empty palms toward Jones. He grins mischievously, his silver earrings flashing in the sunlight. Jones scowls in confusion.

“We’ve been had,” one of the guards tells him. “Bloody devils were tryin’ to distract us to get at the liquor.”

“Bastards!” Jones growls. He lunges toward the Kiowa boy, but the Indian dances backwards, swoops down to retrieve his knife, then flashes Jones another smile and turns on his heel to trot toward the men clustered around the lead wagon.

“It’s just a couple of kids,” Gerald says.

Jones glares at him and opens his mouth, but then Charlie says, “They’ll be trying the mules an’ horses next,” and Jones sticks his knife back into his belt and heads off toward the remuda.

That night, Ewing Young settles beside Gerald as they drink the last round of coffee by the fire. “Good work there today,” Young says. “Kept a battle from starting.”

“Would it have gone that far?” Gerald asks in surprise.

“You never can tell. How’d you know what they were up to?”

“I guess I’ve learned to watch out for the unexpected.”

Young grins. “Even Charlie got caught by that one. And here I thought you were a green hand.”

“When it comes to the wilderness, I am,” Gerald says. “But when it comes to people, I’ve got more experience than I would prefer.”

Young studies him, a question in his eyes, but Gerald turns his face to the fire. Once again, he’s said more than he should have. But it doesn’t seem to matter to Young, who nods thoughtfully, then rises to name the men who’ll take the first watch.

Thank you for your interest in Not Just Any Man. You can access other free chapters here. Want to get future chapters in your in-box? Sign up to follow me via email.

Southwest Proverbial Rolling Stones

I’m fascinated by Southwestern proverbs, also known as refranes or dichos. In fact, I’m so fascinated that my monthly newsletter always includes one, with a translation.

My primary source for that content is Refranes: Southwest Spanish Proverbs, collected and translated by Rubén Cobos. As I was perusing Refranes for this month’s inspiration, I noticed that Cobos included five proverbs for the concept that’s generally expressed in English as “a rolling stone gathers no moss.”

That English expression dates back to sixteenth century translations of Roman author Publius Syrus. It’s generally interpreted as advice to stay in one place. If you don’t, you’re never going to accumulate “green,” meaning dollars.

Here are the proverbs that Rubén Cobos collected, along with the translations he provided:

Piedra movediza el musgo no la cobija: A moving rock allows no moss. (#1368)
Piedra movediza no cría enlame: A moving rock allows no slime. (#1369) Piedra movediza no cría mojo: A rolling rock allows no rust. (#1370)
Piedra movediza nunca mojo la cobija: A moving stone never gets rusty. (#1371)
Piedra que rueda no cría mojo: A rock that rolls doesn’t get rusty. (#1372)

I was puzzled by the fact that only one of these refranes (#1368) actually includes the word “musgo,” or “moss.” The rest of them talk about slime (elame) and rust (mojo).

When I went to the dictionary to confirm Cobos’ translations, I became even more puzzled. The most up-to-date one, The American Heritage Spanish Dictionary), says “mojo” means “gravy” or “juice,” and doesn’t even include an entry for “enlame.” My older (1960) copy of Cassell’s Spanish-English Dictionary doesn’t include a definition for either word, although it does have an entry for “enlamar,” which it defines as “to cover with slime.” This word is also in an even older source (Velasquez’s Pronouncing Dictionary, originally published in 1852), which says it is “applied to inundations.”

Interestingly, Velasquez also says “mojo” is from “remojo,” which means the act of steeping or soaking. So, my older resources do indicate both words have to do with liquid, some of it not very tasty. I suppose you could make the link between these definitions and moss. After all, moss grows in wet conditions. But it seemed odd. Those wet conditions are unpleasant. And could produce other things besides moss. Illness, for example.

At this point, I remembered that I owned another book by Mr. Cobos, his Dictionary of New Mexico and Southern Colorado Spanish. When I pulled it out, I discovered that, in early to mid-nineteenth century New Mexico, “mojo” meant “rust, mold, or mildew.” Perhaps reflecting what happens when things are left steeping in liquid too long? “Enlame” meant “scum, slime; a kind of moss.” So there was the link between scum and moss. Not a very salubrious one, but still a link.

As a result of all this research, I began to wonder if Publius Syrus actually meant that a rolling stone should keep on rolling and not stick around to be loaded down with moss. Or rust, mold, or mildew.

Which reminded me that I originally thought the rolling stone proverb meant “stay home, don’t go adventuring, etc.” And led me to ponder whether a closer look at old proverbs can give us more than interesting images and turns of phrase. Perhaps they can also help us examine what we think we’ve been taught.

This particular set of refranes certainly implies that being a metaphorical rolling stone may be a good thing, at least in terms of our world view. Perhaps keeping ourselves open to new perspectives, not letting ourselves stew in what we think we know, can reduce the possibility of metaphorical moss, rust, mold, slime, or mildew sticking to us.

Even if we consider ourselves a cut above the rocks around us, we still might want to think about examining what we think we know. Because, as refrane #750 (“fierro movedizo no cría mojo”) points out, a moving piece of iron doesn’t get rusty, either.

Fiction and Fact From Old New Mexico

LorettaMilesTollefson.com

Category: Old West

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 11

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 10

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 9

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 8

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 7

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 6

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 5

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 2

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

Southwest Proverbial Rolling Stones

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CHAPTER 11

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