Tag: Fred Friedman

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 10

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 10

The following material is an extract from NOT JUST ANY MAN, A Novel of Old New Mexico, Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson. Published by Palo Flechado Press, Santa Fe, NM

A Note about Spanish Terms: This novel is set in northern New Mexico and reflects as much as possible the local dialect at that time. Even today, Northern New Mexico Spanish is a unique combination of late 1500s Spanish, indigenous words from the First Peoples of the region and of Mexico, and terms that filtered in with the French and American trappers and traders. I’ve tried to represent the resulting mixture as faithfully as possible. My primary source of information was Rubén Cobos’ excellent work, A Dictionary of New Mexico and Southern Colorado Spanish (University of New Mexico Press, 2003). Any errors in spelling, usage, or definition are solely my responsibility.

CHAPTER 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.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson


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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 8

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 8

The following material is an extract from NOT JUST ANY MAN, A Novel of Old New Mexico, Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson. Published by Palo Flechado Press, Santa Fe, NM

A Note about Spanish Terms: This novel is set in northern New Mexico and reflects as much as possible the local dialect at that time. Even today, Northern New Mexico Spanish is a unique combination of late 1500s Spanish, indigenous words from the First Peoples of the region and of Mexico, and terms that filtered in with the French and American trappers and traders. I’ve tried to represent the resulting mixture as faithfully as possible. My primary source of information was Rubén Cobos’ excellent work, A Dictionary of New Mexico and Southern Colorado Spanish (University of New Mexico Press, 2003). Any errors in spelling, usage, or definition are solely my responsibility.

CHAPTER 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.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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