NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 30

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 30

Gerald has plenty of time to fire-gaze over the next few weeks, although the flames are now on a hearth in Agustín Torres’ wooden-gated adobe on the south side of the Santa Fe plaza. Manuel Armijo has taken over as governor and, though the Santa Fe alcalde immediately asked for a copy of the proclamation, it takes two weeks and a second request before the bureaucracy produces the document.

Young’s jaw tightens when he hears Cristobel Torres’ careful translation. Mexico City has indeed forbidden foreigners to trap. The licenses Narbona issued the previous year are technically invalid. Manuel Armijo is free to dispose of the confiscated furs in any way he sees fit.

“Not that they’re going to be fit to be disposed of,” Sublette grumbles. He rubs his leg and moves his foot a little, easing the discomfort. “No American merchant is likely to touch ’em. These Mexicans don’t know anything about storing furs and those packs have been in that old cracked-roof adobe behind the Governor’s so-called palace all this time, gettin’ rained on. Even if they aren’t wet, they’ve been packed up longer than they should’ve been. They’re likely to be in a hell of a shape by now.”

Ewing Young studies him for a long moment, then lifts himself from the adobe wall bench where he’s been sitting in the Torres sala. “Well, I guess that’s something the Governor ought to consider,” he says. “His furs aren’t going to have much value unless someone who knows what they’re doing dries them out.” He brushes past Gerald in the doorway, crosses the Torres courtyard, and lets himself out the big wood-plank gate and into the plaza.

The mid-June sunlight glares down at the dusty plaza and the people meandering across it. The sellers under the palace portal look up as Young strides across the square, then down at their wares as he barges through the building’s heavy wooden doors.

Gerald, watching with James Pattie and George Yount from the Torres gate, senses a general pulling together of goods and blankets. Business doesn’t stop, but the vendors are definitely aware that violence could erupt and flight might be necessary. The set of the sellers’ shoulders reminds him of the turkeys he and Old Bill observed in the canyon of the Cimarron: not taking flight just yet, but positioning themselves for it, if flight should be necessary.

When Young returns, he’s shaking his head in disgust. It takes another three weeks and a deputation of Santa Fe’s American merchants before Governor Armijo is convinced that the confiscated plews are truly in danger of moldering into worthlessness. He reluctantly orders them hauled out to the plaza in two wooden carretas, there to be shaken out, inspected, and repacked. But only under Alcalde Duran’s supervision, he says sternly. The trappers are not to be left alone with the furs, and the plews are to remain at all times on the portal in front of the gubernatorial palace.

The July sunshine is hot and clear when Young, Gerald, and George Yount go to work on the water-stained packs in the shade of the portal. The trappers have displaced the vendors, who’ve shuffled their goods to the few shady spots on the three other sides of the square, including under the adobe walls of the Torres casa.

At either end of the portal, a Mexican soldier leans against the massive cottonwood columns that support its portal roof. The Alcalde is closer, hovering nearby.

The trappers lay the packs in a line under the portal, then start at the western end. When Young cuts the rawhide straps around the first pack, the compressed plews expand, bulging against their deerskin cover as if trying to escape. When Gerald and Yount peel back the wrapping, the furs expand further. The stack of plews leans dangerously, threatening to topple.

They steady the stack as Ewing Young carefully pulls off the top plew. He shakes it flat, then carries it to the edge of the portal and holds it up to the sunlight. He and the Alcalde examine it for damage, then Duran gently places the fur on a blanket spread in the plaza sunshine, a few yards beyond the portal. The next plew is damaged and the Alcalde sets it aside on a separate blanket that he’s laid beside the first one.

As the men work through the stack, other trappers wander by, some of them Young’s men, some from other groups. They pause to watch Young at work, then move to the furs on the blankets and shake their heads at the damage. About half the plews have lost their luster or are missing clumps of the thick bottom layer that makes winter beaver so valuable.

Alcalde Duran is intent on his work and doesn’t see the dark looks or notice Milton Sublette’s scowl when he limps by, then steps onto the other end of the portal, and moves back down the porch to examine the still-unopened packs.

Sublette speaks a word of acknowledgement to Yount and Gerald as he reaches them, nods curtly to Young, then disappears around the corner of the building. Yount watches him go. “He don’t look too happy,” he says.

“Aren’t his furs at the other end?” Gerald asks.

“One of his packs is there at the end and another is toward the middle,” Yount says. “His marks are plain enough, if that’s what he’s lookin’ for.”

Young and Duran finish the first pack and move to the second. Young bends over it, then grimaces. “Look at the stain on that cover,” he says to the alcalde. “This one is going to be nasty.” Gerald and Yount cut the straps and peel back the water-marked buckskin. As the first plews bulge out, the stink of mildew fills the air.

“They must have been just sitting in water,” Young says. He puts a palm on the top plew, then reaches down and jams his other hand into the middle of the pile. “The farther down they are, the wetter they get.” As he tries to lift the top pelt, the fragile skin rips under his fingers. He grips it with both hands, pulls the pelt off the stack, gives it a shake, and turns to Duran, the “V” of the tear between his hands. “Look at this!”

Duran nods, his eyes anxious. “It is bad,” he agrees. “We must begin a new stack of these more ruined—”

“Cuidado!” The soldier nearest them exclaims. They turn toward him, then again, following his pointing finger. At the other end of the portal, the soldier on guard has dozed off in the sunlight. As Young and the others turn, he straightens with a jerk, but it’s too late. Milton Sublette has hoisted a pack of furs over his left shoulder and is off the portal and limping rapidly across the plaza toward the Torres gate.

The soldier lifts his weapon. The vendors along the Torres wall scatter, their goods still on the blankets in the ground below the wall.

But then Duran roars “No!” at the top of his voice. The soldier glances toward the alcalde and lowers his gun as Sublette disappears through the big wooden gates.

Duran turns to scowl at Ewing Young. Young’s lips twitch.

“It is not a thing to amuse,” the alcalde says stiffly. He nods grimly toward the palacio’s heavy wooden doors. “His Excellency el jefe politico must be informed and he will not find it a thing of amusement.”

Young spreads his hands, palm upwards. “His Excellency ordered the furs to be aired and cleaned. There’s always a risk in any activity.”

Duran’s scowl deepens.

“Sublette acted on his own,” Young says. “He’s a free trapper.” He glances down the row of packs. “I believe you’ll find that he’s only taken what is his. And not all of those, for that matter.”

Duran turns and barks a command at the soldier at the far end of the portal. The man moves toward him with his head down. Duran snaps something in Spanish and the man spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. Duran swings around, squinting across the plaza. “Torres!” he says bitterly. Then he turns to Young, who’s gone back to pulling furs from the pack.

“Here, Locke,” Young says, lifting a plew toward Gerald. “Let’s keep moving.”

As Gerald reaches for the fur, the alcalde spits, “His Excellency will hear of this!”

Young looks up. “They weren’t my plews,” he says. “They belong to Sublette, not to me. And you still have his other pack. Jim Pattie’s too, for that matter.”

The American’s apparent lack of concern seems to infuriate the alcalde, whose eyes narrow. He turns sharply and waves his two soldiers closer. He barks an order, then turns on his heel and marches into the adobe palacio.

Young pulls another plew from the stack. “We’d better get a move on,” he says dryly. “I doubt we’ve got a whole lot of time before His Excellency sends out more troops to guard his vast wealth.”

Gerald is reaching to cut the straps on the third pack when a dozen soldiers march into the square. The few vendors still in the plaza melt into the side streets.

Young straightens to watch the soldiers, a contemptuous smile on his lips. “They’re quite a sight, aren’t they?” he asks no one in particular. He glances at Yount and Gerald. “You might want to move off a little. There’s no use in you being arrested, too.”

Gerald returns his knife to its sheath and he and Yount move to the end of the portal and step onto the dusty street beyond.

Young waits for the soldiers to cross the plaza to him, his head contemptuously erect. They move into place, an armed man on either side and two more behind him, and he steps into the plaza and then down the nearest side street.

The remaining soldiers begin collecting the beaver plews and reloading them onto the carretas. Gerald and Yount look at each other grimly and try not to watch as the carefully sorted furs are tumbled into a single heap.

There’s a sudden shout across the square. They all turn to see James Pattie in the Torres gateway. “You’ll ruin ’em, doin’ that!” Pattie yells, his voice high with strain. He spreads his hands in front of him, palms down. “Flatten ’em out, for God’s sake!” He takes a step into the plaza, but then a soldier appears from the corner of the casa, a musket in his hands. Pattie’s head swivels toward the weapon, and he takes two steps back, into the safety of the Torres compound.

Then Agustín Torres appears at the gate. He says something to the soldier, who shakes his head disapprovingly, but lowers his musket. But he doesn’t leave. He turns and moves to one side of the gate, facing the square.

Gerald glances around the plaza. It’s empty of vendors.

“It is time, I think, to return,” George Yount says. He moves toward the Torres house. The soldier eyes him warily, but Yount ignores him and walks firmly into the courtyard.

As the tall wooden doors start to swing shut behind Yount, Sublette’s head and shoulders appear in the gap. His head turns, studying the plaza. He sees Gerald and lifts an arm to make a sweeping gesture, pulling him toward the house. Gerald hesitates. But he has nowhere else to go. And he still hasn’t been paid. He moves reluctantly across the square.

Inside, he finds a dozen trappers scattered around the walled courtyard, sitting on bedrolls or leaning against the adobe walls. Milton Sublette is bent over his pack of furs, checking the straps. He looks up and grins at Gerald. “Looks like we’re in for it now!” he says.

Agustín Torres comes out into the sunlit courtyard. He’s a short stocky man with a wide, usually cheerful face, but now he looks anxious. “I have just received word that the soldiers are coming for you,” he tells Sublette. He tilts his head toward the gate. “It would be well if you and your furs are not here when they arrive.”

Sublette’s eyes narrow. “You don’t want a fight, huh?”

Torres spreads his hands, palms upward. “I offer you my home, señor. But not the lives of my wife and my children.”

“And this just isn’t the time and place for battle,” Richard Campbell says mildly.

Sublette nods impatiently. “I know it. I don’t like it, though.” He shrugs, then crouches down next to his pack of furs. He flips it onto his shoulder, then straightens carefully, favoring his injured leg. He turns to Torres. “You got another way out of here that’s not through that gate?”

“Gracias, señor,” Torres says. He turns and gestures toward a small door at the opposite end of the courtyard. “This way, if you please.”

Sublette follows him across the enclosure. He turns at the door. “Hold ’em off as long as you can, boys!” he says with a grin.

There’s a general chuckle as Sublette ducks through the door, then the remaining men look at each other warily. “I hope this doesn’t turn itself into a fight,” Richard Campbell says. “It’d be a bad thing indeed to wreak damage on this fine house.”

“They’ve got my furs,” James Pattie says bitterly. He runs his hand through his curly blond hair. “Every single one of them. And all of them mixed in with Young’s now, like as not.”

“The adobe walls, they are easy to fix,” Michel Robidoux says. “And the repair of them is women’s work, not Torres’.”

“Well now, that thought seems most, how do you say, unchivalrous,” George Yount says. He lifts an eyebrow at Robidoux. “Is that the right word?” Then he shrugs and lifts his muzzle loader to check his powder. “It is my hope the shooting will not happen.”

“But ’tis better to be prepared than not,” Richard Campbell says as he lifts his own firearm.

The pounding at the gates comes a full hour later. The men inside are ready for it. They’re scattered casually around the courtyard, Gerald leaning against the far wall, Robidoux and LeCompte crouched near the gate with playing cards in their hands, George Yount and Richard Campbell sprawled casually on benches placed along opposite walls. Only James Pattie moves, restlessly stalking the space between Yount and Campbell. Every man has a weapon either in hand or laying across buckskin-covered knees.

The gate shakes again and Pattie stops in his tracks. No one moves.

Agustín Torres hurries out of the house and across the courtyard without looking at the trappers. He swings the gate open just far enough to allow the soldiers to enter. He bows slightly, his head erect, eyes arrogantly sharp. Watching him, Gerald marvels at the man’s transformation from placating host, when he asked Milton Sublette to leave, to Spanish aristocrat.

The man in charge of the soldiers explains apologetically that they have orders to search the house for Sublette and his furs, and Torres regally nods permission. The soldiers ignore the trappers as they move across the courtyard. Torres, his arms crossed over his chest, stands at the gate and waits impassively for their return. A small boy appears at his side and Torres puts his hand on the child’s shoulder and speaks a few quiet words. The boy nods, his eyes large in his small face, but stays close to Torres.

When the soldiers reemerge, their leader apologizes once again. Torres and he speak together in Spanish, their words rapid and liquid in the sun, then Torres gestures to the boy, who runs to the gate and swings it fully open.

Only after the gate has closed behind the governor’s men do the trappers finally stir. “We didn’t expect to bring such trouble on your head,” Richard Campbell says apologetically.

Torres shrugs. “Ah, there is always some trouble in this life. And it is possible that we have now finished with this thing.”

But the thing isn’t finished. Two hours later, Young appears. “After all that time waiting, His Excellency wasn’t available for an interview,” he says drily. “I guess he was too busy countin’ the furs he’s worked so hard for. I hear there’s a market in Mexico City for beaver plew.”

But the Governor is apparently available the next day, because two soldiers show up at the Torres casa with a notice that bids “Señor Joven” to an audience. Young’s jaw tightens, then he moves so quickly past the soldiers and across the plaza that they’re forced to half-run to keep up.

He returns almost as quickly, looking pleased with himself. “Almost got myself thrown in the calaboose,” he tells Agustín Torres with a grin as the massive gate swings shut behind him. The small boy who’d opened it for the soldiers heaves the wooden bar that latches it into place.

“El calabozo?” Torres says in alarm.

Young shrugs. “Your governor sure does like to bluster and threaten,” he says. “He’s claiming me and Sublette had some kind of arrangement, that I talked his Excellency into having those furs hauled out to the plaza just so Milt could steal what was his.” Young shakes his head. “Armijo sure don’t let go of an idea once he gets it in his head.” He laughs. “I finally just walked out on him.”

Torres’ eyes widen. “You walked away from His Excellency? El jefe?” He looks apprehensively toward the wooden gate, then at Young. “You left his presence without his permission?” Someone raps firmly on the other side of the gate, and Torres sighs and gestures wearily for the boy to open it.

A cluster of men in uniform stand outside. “The house, it is surrounded, Don Torres,” their leader says apologetically. He looks over Torres’s shoulder to Ewing Young. “You must come with us now, Señor Joven,” he says. “It is on the order of el jefe politico.”

“There are other ways of settlin’ this,” James Pattie says from his seat on the other end of the courtyard. They all look toward him as he lifts his gun from his knees.

Torres sucks in his breath. Young puts his hand on Torres’ forearm and shakes his head at Pattie. “There’s no call for bloodshed,” he says. “I’ll go with them.”

“Gracias, señor,” Torres says.

The soldier makes a polite gesture. “This way, please.”

Young is gone two weeks, held in the Santa Fe prison while his men sit in the Torres courtyard or wander the town, looking for something to do while they wait for their wages. Those who have the resources and inclination spend their time gambling at monte or visiting prostitutes. James Pattie spends a good deal of time grooming and exercising his father’s sorrel mare.

Gerald and George Yount wander into the hills and do a little hunting. From the higher slopes, Gerald notes that every bit of land here suitable for farming is irrigated and in use. Chile and corn seem to flourish in the well-tended soil.

And the hunting in the hills is productive. He and Yount are in the courtyard late one afternoon, presenting a brace of rabbit and grouse to Torres, when there’s a dull thud on the big wooden gate. As the small gatekeeper opens it, Ewing Young appears, Michel Robidoux supporting him on one side, Richard Campbell on the other. Young’s face is thin and pale. His big frame shrinks into itself and his shoulders sag with exhaustion.

Torres springs forward. “My friend!” he says. He looks at the men supporting Young. “What happened?”

“He is with fever,” Michel Robidoux says. “His Excellency the Governor has ordered him released on condition of bond.”

A smile flashes across Young’s face, then his head droops again.

“We didn’t know where else to carry him,” Campbell says apologetically. “You must be weary of us all by this time.”

“No, no,” Torres says. “It is well.” He motions them toward the house door. “Please, bring him within.” He turns to Gerald. “Will you assist?”

They maneuver Young across the courtyard and into the house, Torres and the others following close behind. In the sala, Gerald rearranges a bench so one end is against the adobe wall, and Robidoux and Campbell settle Young onto it, back against the wall, legs stretched out on the bench.

Torres hovers anxiously. “Is it well with you, mi amigo?” he asks.

“A little water and I’ll be just fine.” Ewing Young grins and nods toward George Yount, still holding the rabbits. “And a piece of that hare you’ll be stewin’ up pretty soon.” Young grimaces at Torres. “That’s one nasty calabozo your Governor has there. No light and no blankets to speak of. And the food is an abomination.”

Torres’ back straightens. He crosses his arms. “Your recovery has commenced con rapidez,” he says drily.

Young winks at him as Robidoux and Campbell chuckle. “Armijo seemed to think it might be so,” Robidoux says. “He demanded our guarantee that the Captain would not disappear.”

“Well, I’m disappearing as far as Taos anyway,” Young says. “And my furs are going with me.” He rubs two fingers together. “It’s amazing what a protestation of innocence accompanied by a small gift can accomplish.”

“And what about my furs?” James Pattie asks.

Young looks at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry, son,” he says. “The governor won’t release them unless you put yourself in his hands.”

Pattie runs his hands through his hair. “In his jail?”

Young grimaces and nods. “It’s your choice,” he said. “You might be able to talk him out of them at the right price.”

Pattie takes a step back. “I don’t want to go anywhere near that bastard!”

Young shakes his head regretfully. “I’m afraid they’re lost to you, then.”

Pattie stares at him, then says flatly, “There’s no reason to stay here, then.”

“Come on to Taos with us, give Armijo a little time, and he might change his tune.”

Pattie frowns and turns to Torres. “Do you think that’s possible?”

The Mexican man shrugs. “I suppose anything is possible.”

Pattie runs his hand through his hair again. “Maybe I’ll go see him,” he says.

“I’d wait until tomorrow, if I was you,” Ewing Young says. “He may be a little testy today, after dealin’ with me. I don’t know that he thinks he got the best of our arrangement. And his price is bound to be higher if we all look too eager.”

But by the next afternoon, it’s too late. Pattie returns to the Torres casa in a pale rage. “That bastard took everything!” he says as he storms into the courtyard. “Sold it all off! Mine and Sublette’s too!”

Ewing Young looks up from the bench where he sits against the sunny adobe wall. “He sure didn’t waste any time.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Pattie says. He half-turns and looks at the other trappers questioningly. They all look uneasily away.

“There’s not much you can do now,” Young says.

“All I’ve got left is my daddy’s horse.” Pattie rubs a hand through his curls. “I guess I can take it to him, see what he’s got to say about it all.”

Young nods. “That might be best. And there’s no need to reimburse me for your food and all.”

Pattie stares at him, then looks down. “I’d forgot about that,” he admits. “What I owe you.”

Young raises a hand, waving the younger man’s concerns away. “You brought in meat enough to cover it,” he says. “We’ll call it even.”

Pattie hesitates, then nods. “I’m gonna go get that horse,” he says, and goes out.

Ewing Young’s eyes follow him and a satisfied look flashes across his face. Gerald’s eyes narrow. Was this part of Young’s deal with the governor? A few coins and the other men’s furs in exchange for his own?

Gerald turns away, disgust in his throat. Is nothing straightforward in this country? Suzanna Peabody’s direct gaze rises in his mind. Not everyone is like Young. He knows that. But the fur trade seems to bring out the mischief in people. It isn’t just the trappers. First the government allows trapping, then trapping’s allowed only under certain conditions. Then it isn’t permitted for Americans at all. Although that hasn’t seemed to slow anyone down much. The trade in pelts is still brisk. Beaver plews aren’t called ‘furry bank notes’ for nothing.

Jeremiah Peabody had said “It’s a bad business.” He’d been referring to Young’s response to de Baca’s death, but Gerald’s beginning to think anything connected with the fur trade is a bad business. It’s too uncertain, too ephemeral. Too filled with tension and suspense and, finally, downright chicanery.

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.

If you would like an ebook or print copy of this novel, it is available from your favorite brick and mortar store as well as Bookshop.org, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or your favorite ebook retailer.

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 29

But the glow of Gerald’s welcome doesn’t last more than an hour. Ewing Young and James Pattie also show up at the Peabody casa that afternoon. Pattie has brought his father’s sorrel mare to show off and they all troop into the courtyard to admire the beast. It shows little sign of its ordeal among the Apache and then the canyon wilderness, and nickers politely at the strangers it’s introduced to, especially after Suzanna produces a small handful of carrots from her winter cache.

The mare delicately takes a single carrot and Suzanna gives Pattie a delighted smile. “She’s remarkably polite!” the girl says.

Pattie runs a hand through his blond curls and smiles into Suzanna’s face. Gerald’s stomach clenches. She smiles that way at everyone. There’s no special welcome here for him. He’s just one of many. Just any man.

Still, he finds himself returning with the others to the parlor and taking tea and sandwiches from her hands. Ewing Young ensconces himself in the window seat. Then Richard Campbell and George Yount show up. The Pattie mare is still in the courtyard, and there’s general talk of the sorrel, horses in general, and Pattie’s father at the Santa Rita mines in particular, and how glad he’ll be to see his Kentucky riding horse again.

Suzanna’s eyes meet Gerald’s more than once as the talk flows around the room and he begins to relax a little. Perhaps there’s something here for him, after all. Something just for him.

But there’s still the matter of Jones. Gerald’s stomach tightens as he waits for the talk to turn to the trapper who was part of the party that found the horse, the man who didn’t return with them.

But the conversation hasn’t arrived anywhere near that subject when Milton Sublette bursts into the parlor. “That damn Armijo!” he says as he enters abruptly, his hat still on his head.

Jeremiah Peabody’s eyes move from Sublette to Suzanna.

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” Sublette says. He snatches his hat from his head and nods to her father. “Jeremiah.” Then he turns to Ewing Young. “I just got in from Santa Fe. Your man in Peña Blanca’s been shot!”

Young lifts his chin. “I don’t have a man in Peña Blanca.”

Sublette makes an impatient gesture. “De Baca, the one who was storin’ our furs. I guess he was serious about protectin’ those plews as if they was his own, because he put up a fuss when the Santa Fe alcalde showed up with his soldiers, and they killed him.”

“Damnation!” James Pattie says. He turns toward Suzanna. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

Suzanna nods at him abstractedly, her eyes on Milton Sublette.

Sublette thumps his hat against his leg and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have left my pack there. I should of just taken them in and paid the full duty on ’em. It would’ve been easier all round.”

“What’s done is done,” Ewing Young says. He glances at James Pattie. “We’ll get them back.”

Jeremiah Peabody leans forward. “Who is it that’s been killed?”

Ewing Young turns his head. “Luis Maria Cabeza de Baca,” he says evenly. “Of Peña Blanca. He was storing some furs for Sublette, Pattie, and me until we could take them into the customs house.” He nods toward Sublette, who’s moved toward the table and is taking a teacup from Suzanna’s hands. “Apparently, the Santa Fe alcalde decided to bring them in sooner.”

Sublette jerks around, his teacup rattling in its saucer. “It’s Governor Narbona that ordered it. Alcalde Duran was just doin’ his job. But who did it don’t matter to de Baca or his family. He’s dead!”

“I heard you. And the furs?”

Sublette grips the teacup so hard Gerald thinks it might snap in two. Sublette stares at Young, his jaw clenched. “All thirteen packs were taken into custody and moved to Santa Fe.” He sits down at the table, opposite Suzanna and as far away from Young as he can get. He carefully places the cup and saucer on the table, then turns in his chair to face the room.

He puts a hand on each knee. “De Baca was tryin’ to protect the furs. He started waving a gun around and one of Duran’s soldiers got excited and shot him.” Sublette shakes his head in disgust and looks at Jeremiah Peabody. “Narbona seems to have forgotten all about the fact that he issued us licenses last spring.”

Young stands in one fluid motion. He looks around the room at the men who’ve been with him all winter. “I haven’t paid you all yet,” he says. “If you want to see your money, you’d best come with me to Santa Fe.” He nods to Sublette. “We don’t need everyone, but see if you can at least round up Michel and LeCompte. Tell ’em to catch us up on the road.” Sublette nods abruptly and disappears into the hallway. Young turns to Jeremiah Peabody, then Suzanna. “Ma’am,” he says as he puts on his hat.

The trappers gather themselves together, nod politely, and move out of the room door. Gerald is the last to stand. “I’d best go with him,” he says apologetically. “Or I’m likely to not see any of the wages I’m due.”

Suzanna nods reluctantly. Her father’s thin face darkens. “I’ll be glad when you’re out of it,” he says.

And what will Peabody say when he learns that these same men left Jones in the wilderness to die? Gerald wonders uneasily. But he only says, “I look forward to being done with it,” and lifts his hat from the peg by the door. He looks for a long moment into Suzanna Peabody’s anxious eyes, then turns silently to let himself out.

It’s a hard and silent ride to Santa Fe, dust thick in the air as the cantering horses throw a haze over the road across the Taos plain and along the ridges above the Rio del Norte. Young stops fifteen miles south to grab a cold meal and let the horses blow.

There’s no time even for brewing coffee, but no one grumbles. Young’s grim face stops complaints before they can become thoughts. The trappers move out again, at a steady trot, conserving their mounts.

They canter into the Santa Fe Plaza early the afternoon of the third day with dusty clothes and sleep-deprived faces, and rein in at the door of the long low adobe building that houses the Governor’s offices and living quarters and forms the north side of the plaza.

Ewing Young stalks through the palace’s massive wooden doors and the trappers sit their horses and gaze at the goods for sale under the building’s portal. Early squash, peas, and last summer’s corn compete for attention with Pueblo pottery and Navajo blankets. But none of Young’s men have money to spend. Not until the confiscated furs are released.

The winter’s catch is still confiscated when Young strides angrily out of the building and mounts his horse. The trappers follow him to a campsite beside the Santa Fe River, just outside of town in a spot that’s easily located. By noon the next day, a small group of American merchants has found them and they’ve all hunkered down to consider what’s to be done. If the furs aren’t returned, if trapping isn’t going to be allowed, there’ll be little reason for any of them to continue on in New Mexico. They all might as well head back to the States.

But a new Governor’s about to be sworn in and nothing’s likely to happen until he’s in office. They can only hope that the rumors about Manuel Armijo’s attitude toward the Americans aren’t true. Especially his reported attitude about American trappers.

“There’s no real law sayin’ foreigners can’t trap,” one of the merchants observes as they sit around the campfire. “This so-called proclamation is just hearsay.”

“Well, somebody’s seen something written down or Narbona wouldn’t be carrying on like this.” Milton Sublette shifts his position on a large sandstone rock and adjusts his wounded leg. “His attitude is quite a change from how friendly he was just last fall.”

“Has anybody seen this so-called proclamation?” Ewing Young asks.

The merchants shake their heads. “Cristobel Torres told me he was shown something, but then the man who showed it to him whisked it away,” one of them says. “Chris says it looked more like a letter than a formal proclamation. But he didn’t get a good look at it.”

James Pattie runs his hand through his hair. “They must have somethin’ to go on,” he says.

“This Armijo sure don’t like Americans much,” the merchant says.

“Like we’re all the same,” Milton Sublette says bitterly.

“I’m thinkin’ we should ask to see this here proclamation they keep talkin’ about and get someone to translate it for us,” the merchant says. “Someone like Torres, who we can trust to say it straight.”

“Isn’t Torres the one with the house opposite the Governor’s so-called palace?” Young asks.

“The one with the big wooden gates? That’s Cristobel’s cousin, I think. Agustín Torres.”

Young nods. “Do you think he’d be willing to give us room and board on credit until this thing is settled?”

The merchant shrugs. “He’s generally friendly toward Americanos,” he says. “He might take you all in, depending on how long it takes to get this mess dealt with and how much you’ll pay him once it’s over with.”

Milton Sublette scowls. “Some of us have families to feed and plans to make. We can’t be waitin’ around all summer for governors to change in the hope that Armijo’ll be more sensible than Narbona.”

Young turns his head. “You’ll get what’s yours.”

Sublette hoists himself awkwardly to his feet. “Everything I’ve got is bound up in those furs.” He scowls at Young. “I don’t know why I didn’t just take what was mine and go on by myself.”

“But you didn’t,” Young says coolly. “You decided throwin’ in with me made more sense.”

“Shouldn’t have.” Sublette kicks at a piece of firewood with his injured leg, sending up a shower of sparks. “And it’s the last time I do.” He turns away. “I’m goin’ to town. Anyone coming with me?”

George Yount stands and looks at Gerald questioningly, but Gerald gestures at the fire, indicating that he’s staying where he is.

“Oh, I forget. Your gal is in Taos, is she not?” Yount grins at Gerald companionably and turns to follow Sublette.

Gerald shakes his head and notices Jim Pattie watching him. He turns his attention to Ewing Young.

“I need to lay low, or whoever is governor will try to arrest me,” Young is telling the merchant. “If that happens, someone else is likely to die.”

The other man nods. “I’m goin’ to ask the alcalde about that there piece of paper and see if he can produce somethin’.”

“How’d he find out about the furs, anyway?”

The other man shifts uneasily. “One of your men reported you to Governor Narbona,” he says reluctantly. “That Mexican Sandoval.”

Young nods grimly. “His Daddy told him to.”

“It’s likely he did. They say Felipe Sandoval is worse than Armijo when it comes to his feelings about Americans.”

Young looks across the fire at Gerald. “This is what happens when you take them in, try to teach them a trade,” he says bitterly. “They’d just as soon turn on you as thank you for your help.”

Gerald looks back at him, recalling Ignacio’s frustrated desire to trap and his anger when he realized that Young planned to circumvent the law. There are two sides to this question, but now doesn’t seem a good time for that discussion. Gerald shrugs noncommittally and looks into the fire.

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.

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 28

Young leads his men north through the sage and juniper-spotted hills west of Santa Fe, well beyond the plaza and the Mexican customs officer. His plan is to report his arrival and pay his fees in Taos, where he has friends among the local officials.

Halfway through the morning, Ignacio leaves the group to head into the city to make amends with his father. “Better sooner than later,” Young says. “Come on up to Taos when you’re ready for your pay.”

Ignacio nods respectfully, but there’s a determined look in his face when he pauses beside Gerald to say goodbye.

“Vaya con diós,” Gerald tells him. “Is that how you say it? Go with God?”

The younger man smiles somberly. “That is most correct,” he says. “And you also.” He glances toward Young, at the head of the line of men and pack mules. “And with great carefulness.”

Gerald frowns. “Are you expecting that we’ll have an problem?”

Ignacio shrugs. “Are there not always problems?” Then he turns and moves on, only pausing for a moment to speak to Gregorio before he heads across the dusty hills toward Santa Fe.

Gerald shakes his head. Great carefulness? Always problems? Ignacio is merely anxious about meeting his father and confessing where he’s been, Gerald tells himself. That’s what’s making him so pessimistic. But the look on the younger man’s face lingers in his mind as he moves north along with the rest of Young’s trappers and mules.

The rocky soil on the road is still dusty underfoot, but Gerald catches glimpses of the cultivated fields below. The ones nearest the river are an emerald green. In spite of Ignacio’s elliptical warning and his own anxiety about meeting the Peabody’s again, Gerald’s spirits lift as the trappers move north toward Taos and its broad plains.

When they top the hill that overlooks the valley, his breath catches. The fields are dotted with men and women bending over the tilled soil. Children drive cattle out of pastures destined for another round of barley or oats. It seems as if every valley inhabitant, except for the trappers and the taberna people who serve them, is in the fields. The acequia ditches brim with water and the bushes along the paths beside them shimmer with fresh green leaves.

Gerald buys a wash tub on credit from Ceran St. Vrain’s shop and carries it back to the trappers’ camp site, once again in a field controlled by Ewing Young. First a bath, then clean clothes. He can’t stand the smell of himself another moment.

He places the tub in the middle of a small cottonwood grove, requisitions a pot to haul water from the acequia, then uses it to heat water over the fire. There’s a sense of release in the preparations for being clean. A kind of promise. As if the process will also wash away the smell of other men’s dirt and attitudes. Even Enoch Jones.

He turns his thoughts firmly away from Jones and kneels in the spring grass beside the metal tub. Dry leaves from the previous fall crinkle under his knees. He pulls off his shirt and drops it on the grass beside him, then leans over the tub, dips the pot into the water, and douses his head. The tub erupts in dirty brown swirls. Gerald grimaces. How many times will he need to do this before he’s truly clean? And that’s just his hair. What about his clothes?

He glances at the shirt on the grass. It was once the pale tan of unbleached muslin, now it’s a sort of grayish brown. Is it even possible to get it back to its original state? He wonders how much credit St. Vrain would give him for new clothes and when Young will be back in Taos and able to pay him off.

Behind him, feet crunch on broken leaves. Gerald turns.

Gregorio Garcia is standing at the edge of the trees, looking sheepish, a pile of clothing in his arms. “Hola,” he says. “You are well?”

“Well enough.” Gerald gestures to the wash tub. “I’m just trying to get clean again.” He shakes his head ruefully. “It may take a while. And you? You are well?”

The boy grins. “I was not allowed into the house until I bathed and replaced my clothes.” He shakes his head. “My mother refused to touch me, so much did I stink.” He chuckles. “I did my best in the wilderness to stay clean. I thought I had done well. But a man does not know how he smells until a woman tells him.”

Gerald chuckles and nods toward the brown water in the tub. “I tried to wash my hair.”

Gregorio holds out the clothing in his arms. “Mi mamá sent these to you,” he says. “I am to bring the old ones to her to be laundered.”

Gerald frowns. “I have no money just yet,” he says. “As you know, we haven’t been paid yet.” He begins running his hands through his hair, trying to squeeze out the dirt along with the remaining water.

“It is a loan.” The boy moves forward to put the clothes on a section of clean grass. “It is to say gracias for your friendship to me.”

Gerald’s hands freeze. “You told her what happened?”

“No. Only that you were a friend to me.”

“Anyone would have done the same.”

The boy gives him a pitying look. “I wish that is true, but I am only a mexicano.”

Gerald shakes his head, but Gregorio continues. “In any case, she sent the clothes.” He turns back toward the campsite. “I will be by the fire heating more water.” He looks back at Gerald and grins. “I think you will be needing more!”

Gerald laughs and looks down at the wash tub. He might as well dump this and start again. It won’t do any good to continue with sandy water. He shakes his head. This is going to take a while. He grabs the nearest handle and begins pulling the tub toward the stream.

As much as he wants to see Suzanna Peabody, Gerald waits until Gregorio returns to the campsite with his newly-cleaned clothes before he ventures into the village. He wants to present himself in his own things, not something borrowed.

The laundered clothes and a barber visit for a haircut and shave help to restore him to something like his former self, but he still feels uneasy. His breath tightens as he moves through the streets toward the Peabody casa. He shakes his head at his own anxiety. He’s crossed a mountain range with men he barely knows, battled Papagos and Mojaves, killed a man— His thoughts veer off.

Battled Mojaves, survived the great canyon, and the lands on its precarious brim, he tells himself firmly. He’s faced all of that and earned the respect of his fellow trappers in the process. Survived hunger and thirst beyond most men’s experience.

Yet his stomach clenches with anxiety at the thought of seeing Suzanna Peabody again. Will she greet him with gladness or indifference? There’s been time enough while he’s cleaned himself up for Young or one of the other men to visit the Peabody casa and tell the story of Enoch Jones and his flight into the wilderness.

Gerald’s jaw clenches. He’s a damn fool for waiting so long to go to her. Will she be repelled by what he’s done? Will she even want to speak to him again? And if she does, will she talk of some other man who arrived while he was away, who’s wormed himself into her heart? Or someone who’s been here all along, who she neglected to mention during their conversations last fall? After all, Gerald isn’t necessarily important enough to her to need to be warned off.

He has no right to hope. Of all men, he has the least right to hope. After all, there’s much about him that he hasn’t told her and he has little to offer. Yet he has to admit that he does hope and that very hope makes him reluctant to face her. Afraid he’ll discover he truly doesn’t have a right or reason for his dreams.

When he turns the final corner to the house, his feet slow even further. The big wooden gate in the adobe wall is shut tight.

Who does he think he is, after all? And then there’s the issue of his race. He clenches his fist at himself. He thinks he’s so brave. Yet he didn’t have the courage last fall to tell her the truth and he still cringes at what she will say if—no, when—he does. What if she’s learned while he was gone that he’s not as white as she thinks?

Gerald stares at the wooden gate. It’s not the color of his skin. After all, she seems to hold the brown-skinned Encarnación in high regard. Certainly, Suzanna treats the Peabody cook more as a friend than a servant. The problem is that he’s entered the Peabody casa under false premises and now he doesn’t know how to correct those false impressions. Bringing the subject up now would imply that he has a right to her heart, that he believes she would be interested to know about his ancestry.

Perhaps he should just slip away. Disappear into the mountains as his father did. After all, other men come and go in Taos without making a point of visiting the Peabody parlor. And his funds are safe with Jeremiah Peabody until he calls for them. For that matter, he could send someone else for them. Gerald half-turns, back toward the corner and safety.

“Why, Mr. Locke!” a glad voice says behind him. He wheels to see Suzanna’s face beaming at him from the half-open gate. She comes toward him with her hands out, then glances down self-consciously and lets them fall to her sides. She stops, leaning imperceptibly toward him, then her back straightens. “You’ve returned safely,” she says, her head slightly turned. It’s almost as if she’s afraid to look him in the eyes.

“Yes.” He stands looking at her, her straight black brows above dark eyes that still don’t meet his, the black hair coiled neatly on top of her head, her slim frame brimming with suppressed energy under the old-fashioned dress. He fights the urge to touch her, to turn her face toward his own. His throat feels unaccountably dry. He swallows and forces his lips to move. “And you?” he asks.

She shrugs and moves slightly back. “I am the same.” She turns toward the gate and glances back at him. “Will you come in? My father will be glad to see you.”

“And you?” he asks impulsively. His breath catches at his audacity, but he forces his eyes to stay on her face.

She turns back to him, tilting her head, smiling into his face now, a hint of mischief in her eyes. Gladness sweeps over him.

She glances away, then meets his gaze. “Yes,” she says honestly. “I am very glad to see you.”

His hand lifts toward her, but she turns again toward the gate. “Come inside,” she says abruptly.

Gerald’s forehead wrinkles at the change in tone, but he follows obediently.

By the time they reach the parlor and her father, Suzanna has returned to her open-faced self. “Here’s Mr. Gerald Locke Jr. returned from the mountains,” she says gaily as they enter.

Jeremiah Peabody is alone in the parlor. He puts his book aside, rises, and comes across the room to take Gerald’s hat and shake his hand. “It’s good to see you again, my boy!” he says. “Was your venture successful? We’ve seen no one from your party yet, although we knew you had returned. Come! Tell us where you went and all that occurred!”

Encarnación enters the room, a tray of tea things and sliced white bread in her hands, and beams at him. “He knew you were back because Antonia told Ramón that Gregorio had returned, and Ramón brought us the news,” she says. She glances down at the tray. “I thought you might like some civilized food.”

Gerald smiles at her, a wordless gladness washing over him. He isn’t sure who this Ramón is, but the cook’s assumption that Gerald knows him fills Gerald with a sense of belonging. For a welcome like this, he’d almost be willing to go out to the mountains again.

“Come! Sit down!” Jeremiah Peabody urges him. “Suzanna, are you going to make tea, or just stand there and look at the man?”

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.

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 27

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Irish Emmons? What about him?”

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

“Emmons had a license?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Young raises an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More money,” Young says drily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Si, señor.”

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

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

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

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

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.

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 26

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Going home?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gerald nods. “As have I.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We stoppin’ tonight?” Milton Sublette calls.

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

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.

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 25

The reduction in Ewing Young’s forces shifts his group’s momentum once again. A smaller party makes better time and there’s more beaver to divide between the remaining men. Although there still aren’t many beaver overall. Milton Sublette shakes his head bitterly and Michel Robidoux looks anxious, but there’s little real grumbling until the canyon of the Colorado becomes so deep that its shadowed sides keep parts of the river in almost perpetual darkness. Granite walls tower above it and allow little space for travel along the river. The water churns around massive rocks in the riverbed and the trappers can hear the sullen roar of rapids upstream.

The men’s disquiet comes to a head the morning they wake to fog so thick they can’t see their own feet, much less the top of the canyon. They’re camped on the south bank, in a spot slightly wider than usual, where there’s browse for the animals beside the river. The water runs a little more quietly here, because the channel is wider. The fog has dropped heavily in the night, reaching from one granite wall to the other.

As Gerald opens his eyes and blinks in confusion, Milton Sublette and George Yount rise simultaneously from their blankets on opposite sides of the fog-muted campfire. They loom out of the whiteness like two young giants, hair on end and rifles at the ready. Their heads turn wildly. “I can’t see!” Sublette roars.

Overhead, a stone rumbles down an invisible slope. Then there’s a crunching sound on the upstream bank. Sublette whirls and aims into the fog.

“Hold your fire!” Ewing Young snaps. A mule’s head appears from the mist. Gerald, still in his blankets, suppresses a chuckle.

Sublette glares at Young. “How was I supposed to know?” He jerks his rifle barrel at the white dampness, which seems to be getting thicker by the minute. “Can’t see a damn thing.”

The figure of a man resolves itself from the fog, leading a mule with one hand and flailing the other as if trying to beat the mist into submission. It’s Michel Robidoux.

“Could of been a Mojave,” Sublette grumbles.

“That’s why you need to hold your fire,” Young says.

“And get killed!” Sublette snaps. But he lowers his rifle and turns away.

Robidoux moves to the fire. “Sacrebleu, it is impossible that we stay down here like this,” he grumbles.

The normally taciturn Richard Campbell speaks from his blankets. “Ach, there’s no beaver to speak of and it’s lookin’ like this canyon’s only goin’ to get deeper. We’ll be forced to go up top soon enough.”

“We need to get out now,” Sublette says flatly.

Young’s eyes narrow. “Who’s leadin’ this outfit?”

Sublette’s chin lifts. “I’m a free trapper.”

“Then go if you want to.” Young jerks his head down river. “Go and find Smith and LeDuc and them. Head on out on your own and see how far you get, just you and your mule. At least Smith had some idea of where he was going.”

“I ain’t that kind of fool,” Sublette growls. He turns to Robidoux. “Better watch goin’ off on your own in this fog. It ain’t likely you could find your way back.”

Robidoux shrugs and waves a hand at the canyon walls. “That I could stray far is also unlikely,” he says. “The canyon itself embraces us.”

“That’s for sure,” Sublette grumbles.

“I suppose the canyon and the fog provide as much protection as they do danger,” James Pattie says. He looks up, toward the invisible top of the mist-enshrouded granite walls. “No one up there can see us down here.”

“We can’t see them neither,” Sublette says. “And there ain’t no way out of here that I can see, except up.” He glares at Young, inviting a response. “Unless we follow this damn river to its source, wherever that is. Whether there’s any damn beaver on it or not.” He turns away in disgust. “Some trappin’ expedition this is turning out to be.”

Young doesn’t answer. He’s staring up at the cliffs, first one side, then the other. The fog is slowly lifting away from the water and the canyon walls. The rock overhang here is so deep that he can’t see more than fifty feet up. “I saw deer tracks last evening,” he says thoughtfully.

Gerald is out of his blankets now, rolling them into a compact bundle. Young turns toward him. “Come have a look,” he says. He turns and wades into the river, toward a shallow bar of gravel about a third of the way across.

Gerald follows him out of the shadow of the rock, fighting the current. The two men turn and look up, studying the face of the south cliff. The fog is dissipating rapidly now, though a few wisps still cling to the side of the cliff.

Young points at a seam in the rock face. “There, to the left of that crevice. Does that look to you like a path?”

Gerald examines the granite wall. “It does look like some kind of trail,” he says. “Although it could drop off at that big boulder there on the right.” His eyes swing left. Here and there, evergreens cling in impossible crevices. “What about there, by that cedar?”

Young studies the tree, then shakes his head. “If that’s a trail, only a mountain goat could climb it to the top. It breaks down halfway up, by that big outcrop.” He grimaces and nods downstream. “We passed what I’m looking for yesterday.” He points again. “See there?”

Gerald’s eyes track Young’s arm. There’s a shallow indentation in the almost-vertical rock, worn down by generations of game picking their way to the water below. The trace appears to extend to the top of the cliff. “That looks like it could work,” he says doubtfully.

Young chuckles and pats Gerald’s shoulder. “Only one way to find out,” he says.

It’s a hard climb, and dangerous. The horses roll their eyes as the men lead them upward and the pack mules balk and snort irritably when their loads scrape the granite cliff face. Gerald wants to balk himself, but the only other option is to remain beside the river. So he and the others coax the reluctant animals upward, into an unknown land.

When they finally negotiate the last twist in the narrow trail and scramble up and over the rim, they all stare in amazement. The land lies flat and wasted before them, the sun beating fiercely on scattered and dusty piñon and juniper scrub. Here and there, a single ponderosa breaks the monotony.

“Flatter’n hell and almost as hot,” Sublette mutters. “What is this, March? I ain’t never seen anything as bleak as this. Even that stretch of the Rio del Norte there north of Taos has more green to it.” Then he turns and looks back at the canyon. “Now ain’t that somethin’,” he says.

The others turn to follow his gaze into the ever-widening yawn of the canyon of the Colorado. From this vantage, the river appears to wind through a whole set of canyons, great gashes in the earth, some with entire mountains rising from their base. They’re mountains of sheer stone, jagged pyramids of rock, striped a muted red and dirty yellow, the only plant life an occasional tree that juts precariously from a stony cleft. The Colorado is lost in the depths of the maze and from here it’s impossible to tell which north-running gash it might descend from. The tremendous chasms that slice the earth at their feet seem to go on forever. Gerald’s mule snorts anxiously.

“Sacrebleu!” Robidoux swears.

“It is a grand sight,” George Yount says reverently.

“Indeed,” Richard Campbell says, a little grimly.

“This land up here may be wasted, but it’s better than being down there,” Sublette says.

Gerald feels himself shiver, in spite of the sun burning his shoulders. Who knows what might have laid in wait for them there?

But when he turns to face the landscape above the rim, another shiver runs through him.

The land here is not only flat and dry, with little cover, it holds no sign of recent rain. And, after the dim canyon, the bright March sun beats down mercilessly. He narrows his eyes against it and wishes for some of Old Bill’s charcoal.

But the lack of water is the worst of it. Gerald touches his tongue to his already-parched lips, sets his jaw grimly, and follows Ewing Young east along the edge of the immensity, with only the creak of mule harness and his own bleak thoughts to occupy him. No one speaks.

The trappers follow the canyon rim for five days, husbanding the water in their canteens, moving north and east in a country scorchingly inhospitable by day, bleakly beautiful in the late afternoon light, when a small breeze makes itself felt, and well below freezing at night. The juniper and piñon are too widely spaced and hug the ground too low to provide any real shade or night shelter. Even the ponderosas seem inhospitable, too dusty for their long needles to sparkle in the sharp sun.

There’s little to eat besides what the mules carry. The game that made the trail the trappers followed up the cliff side have made themselves scarce. But then, there’s no browse here, to speak of. And no morning dew to freshen it, if there had been.

To their left, the canyon grows deeper, wider, then deeper still. Great crevices seem to appear out of nowhere at the trappers’ feet, blocking their way forward, forcing them into circuitous routes that move the exhausted men farther south before they can proceed east again.

Gerald begins to feel as if the canyon is alive, is opening new cracks each freezing night in order to force them south into even hotter, dryer country and back to the Gila itself. At least there’s water on the Gila, he thinks deliriously. Perhaps Jones is there. Perhaps this is his punishment for the man’s death. They will meet here somewhere in this bleak land and their bones will mingle, killed and killer bleaching together in the sun.

Is there water in the afterlife? What he would give for just a touch of moisture on his lips. He looks enviously at the dusty trees. How do they survive in this dry land, this rocky soil? But then, they are evergreen. Nothing with a leaf could last long in this desert. And certainly nothing with blood in its veins. No wonder there was a game trail leading down the precipitous cliffs to the canyon. His carefully-husbanded canteen has been empty since yesterday morning and his tongue is swollen with thirst.

He tries to stop himself from biting it. The wet blood moistens his throat, but the biting only makes his tongue swell even more. But it’s difficult to force himself to do anything more than move blindly forward in the dryness, the haze of dust kicked up by his fellow trappers and the animals they lead. Even the thought of Suzanna Peabody has dried up, a mere wisp of a concept burnt out by the beating sun, the heat that rises from the crusted soil under his feet, the dust coating his tongue. Only Jones remains, chuckling grimly.

He can see Jones’ face in his mind, but not his companions. Only Jones’ face and his own feet, moving numbly forward. The other trappers are also silently delirious, throats too dry to waste on mere words, their focus limited to the ground directly before them. Only Milton Sublette’s eyes move, and then only toward Ewing Young, whom he glares at bitterly.

But Young has other things on his mind. Somehow he keeps them all heading in the same direction until, on the sixth day from their climb over the rim, they reach water again. Somehow, they’ve turned northeast and found their way down a gradual, rock-strewn slope into a canyon that’s almost as spectacular as the one they’ve escaped from, but much wider and not nearly as deep. The tops of its red and yellow-striped walls are visible from the stream at its base.

The trappers hardly notice the canyon’s side. They surge gleefully toward the water, then remember their animals. They approach cautiously, letting the gaunt horses and mules drink sparingly. They’ll make themselves sick if they drink as much as they’d like.

They camp one day and two nights, letting the animals adjust enough to drink their fill. They don’t dare stay longer. Now that they’ve all revived a little, the trappers see that the food supplies are astonishingly low. They bathe their dust-ridden heads, drink their own cautious fill, and reload their canteens, then head upriver. The canyon shallows steadily, but there’s little browse and still no game to speak of. An occasional snare-caught rabbit is the only supplement to the remnants of flour the camp keepers scrape from the sides of the remaining barrel.

Gerald loses all sense of the number of passing days. Time is a blur of pain as he hobbles painfully forward. Each morning, he forces himself from a stone-cold bed, moves to bring in the bony animals from their attempts to locate a little grass, then helps the camp keepers lift the cumbersome packs of beaver pelts onto the mules.

Then they set out again. The landscape is still stony and bleak and there’s less cover here than at the top of the Colorado’s canyon. Although the trappers are grateful for the water, the paucity of plant life means there’s no beaver. But it isn’t the pelts that Gerald longs for. It’s the meat underneath them. It’s hard to believe he once yearned for something besides beaver tail.

Finally, they reach the foothills of the Rockies. Mountains have never looked so beautiful, so inviting. The vegetation on the lower slopes is sparse, but more than what was available between the striated walls of the canyon behind them.

And there are meadows. Thin with grass, because it’s still spring, but still meadows. They not only provide grazing for the animals but the open spaces attract other browsers. James Pattie kills a mule deer and the trappers feast royally, not saving any for the coming days, confident that there’ll be more meat as they move farther into the hills. Ewing Young breaks out two bottles of whisky from a hidden stash and the jollity increases.

“If I was less footsore, I’d show you all a proper Scottish reel!” Richard Campbell laughs. He takes a healthy swig of liquor and passes the bottle to Gerald, who hands it on to Michel Robidoux.

“It is a day most marvelous,” Robidoux agrees. “My throat, it is content.” He pats his shrunken waistline. “And the gut, it is also content.”

“That was one hell of a long haul,” Milton Sublette says. He twists around to look at the fur packs on the ground under the scrub oak at the edge of the clearing. “Not much to show for it, neither.”

“It’ll pick up now,” Ewing Young says. “We’ll have so many furs we’ll need to build us a press.”

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.

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 24

Suzanna looks up from her novel and rubs her eyes. Although the mica filters the winter light, there’s enough to read by if she sits on the adobe window seat. Yet her eyes are tired. She closes them, then glances at the door. Her father is going to appear any minute now and ask why she’s not at the table, where her Latin grammar lies unattended.

If she tells him she can’t concentrate, he’s going to want to know why. He’ll probably decide that she’s been drinking the strawberry leaf tea because she’s unwell, and then banish her to bed.

She shudders. Inactivity in bed is the last thing she needs. Lack of exercise is probably the real reason she’s so restless. It’s been an exceptionally cold winter, and she hasn’t been outside in a week. She leans closer to the window. The dim light may be adequate for reading, but she craves sunshine as if it were a food.

Her mind strays to Young’s trappers somewhere far to the west, where she’s been told its warm even in winter, where there’s no lack of sunshine. She sighs. That would be nice. To walk forever across the landscape, soaking in the light, moving in time with the long strides of her companion— She catches herself and her lips twitch. And who would that companion be? A stride equal to hers, gray eyes in a brown face, smiling at her in bemusement. His sturdy square hands—

Suzanna feels herself flush and she leans her face against the cool milky panes of the window. She wishes winter was over, that there’s some way to hear from the men in the field. They’ve been gone such a long time. The waiting is so difficult. Especially when she has nothing to occupy herself. Nothing except Latin and novels.

Then she hears her father’s step in the hallway. She rises abruptly and goes to the fire. The flames will be reason enough for the heat on her cheeks. She takes a deep breath and turns to face the door as it opens.

He glances at the book in her hand. “Miss Rowson?” he says in mild surprise. “Is the Latin not engaging enough for you this morning, my dear?”

She drops her eyes. “I stumbled on the grammar and need your assistance, papá,” she says. As she goes to the table and lifts the Latin text, he watches her in bemusement, but his face is studiously blank when she turns back to him with the book in her hand.

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.

October Sale!

Because October was the month that the prisoners from the 1841 Texan Santa Fe Expedition marched down New Mexico to El Paso, it seems appropriate to put the novel I wrote about that march on sale. So, this month only, the paperback of The Texian Prisoners is 50% off ($8.99) and the ebook is $.99. You can find the Kindle version here and other ebook formats here.

To refresh your memory of what this book is about, here’s the description.

They called themselves “Texians.”

In Fall 1841, a band of roughly 300 men straggled out of the Staked Plains into New Mexico. They had intended to claim everything east of the Rio Grande for Texas. Instead, they were captured and sent south to El Paso del Norte, then on to Mexico City. The largest group of prisoners, which included journalist George Wilkins Kendall, was escorted to El Paso by Captain Damasio Salazar. Five prisoners died on that trek. Kendall would later write a book describing the experience, a book which accused Salazar of food deprivation, mutilation, and murder, and fed the glowing coals that would become the Mexican American War.

But what really happened on the way to El Paso? The Texian Prisoners tells the story through the eyes of Kendall’s friend George Van Ness, a lawyer burdened with the ability to see his enemy’s point of view, and asks us to consider the possibility that Kendall’s report was not unbiased.

A historically accurate retelling of Larry McMurtry’s Dead Man’s Walk, this fictional memoir will make you question everything you thought you knew about Texas, New Mexico, and the boundary between them.

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 23

The trappers march steadily up the Colorado, covering as much ground as possible, not stopping to trap. Each night, they raise a rough barricade around their fireless camp and post a two man, two hour watch. There’s plenty of beaver sign and Thomas Smith complains that they’re wasting good territory, but Young pushes everyone forward. Even the animals feel the impact of long days crossing unfamiliar ground. They stamp and nip impatiently as the camp keepers load them each morning.

To top it off, the rain starts up again: a steady drizzle more disheartening than any solid downpour with a defined beginning and end. Gerald feels as if he’s moving in a drearily endless nightmare of wet clothes, slippery mud, cranky mules, and anxious men.

On the fourth night, the rain stops and the mood lightens. Young seems to think the worst of the danger is past and allows the camp keepers three small fires for the evening meal. He details Thomas Smith for the first watch, and he and the others wrap themselves in their still-damp blankets and lay down beside the smoldering flames.

It’s full dark, and Gerald has been asleep perhaps two hours, rolled into his blankets just beyond Young and the campfires, when the arrows come pouring in. They thud heavily into the wet ground.

“What the hell?” Ewing Young exclaims. He rolls from his blankets, bumping up against Gerald’s legs as Gerald sits up and reaches for his gun. “Get down!” Young barks and Gerald drops, his hands clutching the rifle’s smooth stock. “Won’t do you any good!” Young says. He half rises, peering into the night. “Use your knife!”

Gerald fumbles at his waist and sits up. Crab-like, he moves toward Young and crouches beside him.

“Douse those fires!” Young barks. Blankets fling up and out, covering what’s left of the flames. But it’s too late. The damage has been done. As the light dies, the Indians disappear into the night.

The trappers rise cautiously and look around the clearing, trying to assess the damage by the dim light of a clouded moon.

“Get me outta here!” James Pattie gasps. He’s still in his blanket. Smith moves closer to examine him. He chuckles and shakes his head. Arrows project from the ground on either side of the younger man, pinning his wool trade blanket in place. Pattie looks back at Smith in terror. “I can’t move!” he says. “I’m paralyzed!”

“You ain’t hurt.” Smith reaches down and yanks on one shaft, then another. The fire-hardened wooden points pull smoothly out of the wool and Smith kicks the blanket aside. “Come on out of there,” he says. “You’re all right. Those arrows don’t even have a real point on ’em.” He turns and tosses them to the ground.

“Pointed enough to do damage if they hit you,” Maurice LeDuc says, looking down at the man who’d been lying next to Pattie. “This one is gone.”

“And this one,” George Yount says from the other side of the clearing.

“And I got hit,” Milton Sublette says, his voice coming from the darkness on Gerald’s right. Gerald turns to see Sublette holding the fleshy part of his upper left arm, blood oozing from his bicep.

“First the right leg, then the left arm,” Young says. “Next time, it’ll be your head if you’re not careful.”

Sublette scowls and looks at Smith. “Do you think you can fix this one up better’n you did my leg?”

Smith humphs, leans his rifle against a tree stump, and turns to find his pack. “Only thing wrong with your leg is your head. You should of let that Mexican woman medicine it.”

“I ain’t lettin’ no witch woman doctor me,” Sublette says sourly. “You gonna bind this up, or not?”

Maurice LeDuc appears at Smith’s elbow and mutters something in his ear. Smith drops his pack and turns on Young. “Dammit, they got my horse!” he shouts.

Young raises his hand. “Quiet now,” he says. “They may still be out there.”

Smith pays him no heed. “Damned thieving coyotes! Sneaking cowards!” He reaches for his rifle and starts across the clearing. “I’m goin’ after ’em.” He turns to glare at Young. “I don’t care what you say! Those Injuns need a lesson they won’t forget!”

Ewing Young looks at the two dead men, then the wounded Sublette. “Wait until morning,” he says. “Then we’ll cut out after them.”

Smith and a dozen of the others ride out at first light, Gerald among them, James Patty on his father’s sorrel mare. Gerald can’t say why he accompanies the posse. Some atavistic desire to see the thing through, he supposes. Blood’s been shed. Or perhaps it’s simply that, after four days of fighting and waiting, waiting and fighting, he’s tired of living in fear and wants to put an end to at least this particular threat.

He realizes guiltily that he wants the sense of relief that he felt after the fight with Jones. A release of the tension, no matter the cost. He grimaces. He’s no better than the men on either side of him, who are urging their mounts forward so eagerly. He’s just a man like any other man. In this case, he’s not sure that he likes the idea very much.

It’s just dusk when they find the Mojave camp. It seems that Thomas Smith has a nose for Indians. Or at least the smell of broiled horseflesh on the early evening breeze. Sweet but with an overlay of charcoaled bitterness. Smith reins in at the top of a small hill and nods grimly to the left and a cluster of cottonwoods beside a small stream that empties into the river beyond.

Smith reaches for his rifle and checks the primer as the other men draw up beside him. Gerald cranes his neck to peer past LeDuc’s shoulder. A group of bare-chested Mojave men cluster around a campfire beneath the gnarled cottonwoods. As the trappers watch, there’s a hoarse exclamation from the branches of one of the trees. The warriors turn in unison toward the hill, strung bows materializing in their hands.

“Arrows!” Smith says contemptuously. He heels his horse and charges down the slope, his rifle blasting as he goes. The young warrior in the cottonwood tumbles out of its branches and the other Indians break for cover as the rest of the trappers follow.

Gerald pauses long enough to check his powder, then urges his horse forward, weapon at the ready. But by the time he reaches the thicket of streamside willow where the Indians have turned to make their stand, his rifle is only a distraction. There’s no room here for arrows or gunfire. Knives and spears are the weapons of choice and both sides use them fiercely, the mounted trappers leaning forward and jabbing downward, the Mojaves sidestepping the blood-wild horses while maneuvering for a spear thrust that will silence them or their riders.

Gerald’s horse shies from a thrusting spear and Gerald leaps off, letting him run. Then a warrior rushes him. The Mojave’s tattooed face and the red strip of cloth binding his hair are spotted with blood and his eyes are mere slits of fury. He raises an arm, swinging a two-foot-long wooden club. Gerald ducks and swings his rifle.

The rifle butt hits the warrior broadside in the chest and the man falls into the dirt. Gerald straddles him, flips the gun into position, and fires. The bullet explodes into the man’s chest, but Gerald doesn’t stay to inspect the damage. He leaps away, every sense heightened, braced for the next onslaught.

But there is no onslaught. The fight is over and the other trappers are already celebrating. Pattie and two other men prance in a mock war dance between dead and dying Mojave warriors. The normally phlegmatic LeDuc has his trousers down, his urine spraying triumphantly. “Iiiiiiyee!” he yells.

Gerald winces and looks away only to see Thomas Smith looping a lariat around the neck of a Mojave who’s attempted to escape. A section of spear projects from the man’s back, apparently wrested from one of his fellow warriors and used against him. The three feathers on the end of the spear wave jauntily as Smith yanks the man toward one of the cottonwoods.

Smith tosses the loose end of his lariat over a thick branch and begins pulling the Mojave inexorably to his doom. The warrior closes his eyes for a brief moment, then his jaws lock stubbornly. Gerald feels a twinge of sympathy and respect.

Milton Sublette moves toward Smith, waving a long black scalp and dragging the body it came from by one leg. “Here’s another one!” he says.

Smith grins and nods. “That’ll show ’em what happens when they attack white men!” In his distraction, he pauses in his work. The Mojave man’s feet are still on the ground and he gives a sudden twist, trying to slip out of the rope. A rifle blasts, and the man crumples.

Smith nods at LeDuc. “Fast thinking!” he says. He kicks at the warrior, assuring that he’s truly dead, then turns and looks around for more. “Hey Pattie! Bring that one, too!”

Bile rises in Gerald’s throat. He moves away, toward the hill. The animals are clustered behind it, milling anxiously. He finds his horse and starts to lead it away, but finds himself drawn to the hilltop.

Six warriors dangle from the cottonwoods. Except for the man Sublette scalped, the warriors’ long lustrous black hair splays awkwardly over their shoulders, canted to one side by their broken necks. Under the trees, Smith slaps Maurice LeDuc on the shoulder, as if congratulating him on a job well done. Gerald’s throat fills with bile as he turns away and mounts his horse.

~ ~ ~ ~

While the fight with the Mojaves leaves Gerald feeling sick, the other trappers seem filled with a strange exhilaration. They move up the Colorado in a whirl of hunting, albeit mountain sheep and deer rather than beaver. In fact, they feel so powerful, they become magnanimous, leaving the few Indians they encounter at little risk of the indignities they inflicted on the Mojave.

Still, Gerald braces himself for trouble each time he sees a native hut and feels a surge of relief when the encounter is over. He wonders how long the magnanimity will last. Hardly any pelts have been added to the packs since the trappers’ first interactions with the Mojave, and beaver are thin along this part of the Colorado. There isn’t much overt grumbling, but there is a sense that things could be better.

Smith, of course, is more free with his opinions than the others. He blames first the Indians and then Ewing Young. From his perspective, Young wasn’t firm enough in the first place and, in the second place, the route Young has chosen is just plain stupid.

His comments are particularly strong on mornings when he’s found only one beaver in his six-trap set. He’s so disgusted that he’s started muttering that he’d just as soon give up trapping altogether and head on back to the settlements by way of the Zuni. They apparently have some good looking gals there that would ease at least some of his frustration.

Maurice LeDuc chuckles at Smith’s more colorful grumbling and adds comments of his own, but Young ignores them both. Young’s lack of response seems to goad Smith and, as the trappers move up river, he and LeDuc begin spending more time apart from the others, occasionally pulling in Pattie, Solomon Stone, and even Ignacio.

They make no effort to lower their voices. “East,” and “Zuni villages,” and “more beaver” drift to the others around the fires. Young remains aloof. After all, Smith and LeDuc are free trappers. They can do and say what they like. Only the camp keeper is under contract and Young seems confident that Ignacio will remain with him.

Gerald watches the friction uneasily. The larger the band, the more secure it is and the more likely to produce a favorable beaver harvest. And Ignacio’s contract with Young is as binding as his own. Will the boy break it and become known as a man who doesn’t keep his word?

But it’s none of Gerald’s business and he turns to his own work. He oils his traps, considers the kinds of crops that might grow in nuevomexico, and lets himself wonder what Suzanna Peabody might be doing at this particular moment.

In spite of his concern about Ignacio, Gerald feels a sense of relief the night Smith and LeDuc announce that they’re pulling out the next morning, along with Solomon Stone and Alexander Branch.

Young looks at Pattie. “You and that horse of your daddy’s goin’, too?”

Pattie hesitates, then shakes his head and runs his hand through his curly blond hair. “I’ll be staying along with you, if that’s all right,” he says meekly. Young nods brusquely, then turns toward Ignacio.

“I made a contract, señor,” Ignacio says stiffly. He looks away. “I will honor it.”

“I should hope so,” Young says. As the Captain turns back to Smith, Ignacio’s face darkens. He moves stiffly toward the food.

Gerald frowns. What is it about Young that the boy dislikes so thoroughly?

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.

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 22

Those among Ewing Young’s men who’ve tasted Encarnación’s custard think of it longingly as they trap down the Gila. Game is scarce and even the fish are wary of these men who invade the beaver ponds. The trappers’ diet has shrunk to beaver carcasses and the little corn they can trade at the occasional Papago village, villages which are warily courteous to the foreigners.

The monotony of beaver and occasional corn stew is wearing. Gerald finds himself thinking wistfully of white flour biscuits and black tea. And narrow brown hands holding out a small china plate— But he stops himself. He has no right. He busies himself mending traps and creating willow frames for the pelts he collects every morning.

Young’s party is ten days on the Gila before it reaches the Colorado River. Here their diet expands to include beans traded with the Uma Indians. Then the trappers turn north, up the Colorado. They begin to see cultivated fields again, planted by Indians that Ewing Young says are called ‘Mojave’ and James Pattie insists are the Maracopper. What matters to Gerald is that, although it’s still only late February, the squash plants in the fields are already well up and looking remarkably healthy.

There’s no apparent design to the way the squash is planted, except that each hillock lies on the edge of layers of silt still moist from the river’s spring flood. It’s a very different farming pattern from the irrigation ditches among the Papago fields on the Gila, or the ones at Los Chavez.

The fields expand as the Americans move upstream. In startling contrast to the flat lands along the Gila, brown as far as the eye could see, the Colorado’s valley is a swath of green bounded by high stony bluffs that block a man’s view of anything but the river and its valley. Dense thickets of cane and arrow weed line the river banks, and beaver lodges bulk from its sides. As the expedition’s fur take increases, the trappers’ pace slows. There’s beaver enough here to last them a good while.

It’s a pleasure to work and rest here. Gnarled cottonwoods cluster wherever the ground is slightly raised. Under the trees, the grass is thick and green. The mules and horses bend toward it eagerly.

But then it begins to rain, and the reason for the river’s width and the lush growth beside it becomes clear. The rain here isn’t like New Mexico’s: a half day of moisture, then sun again, sparkling on a newly-cleansed world. On the spring-time Colorado, the rain comes hard and solid, a steady downpour that lasts all day, then into the next, and the next after that.

The trappers sit gloomily under makeshift tents of heavy canvas that they’ve had no use for until now. They huddle the tents as close as possible over the cooking fires, trying to protect the flames from the rain while also making sure the canvas doesn’t catch fire. Gerald hunkers down with Thomas Smith and Maurice LeDuc under a square piece of tenting strung between two young cottonwoods.

On the third afternoon, the rain begins to ease. As the clouds pull back, a band of half-naked Indians appears among the trees, red, white, and black designs painted on their chest.

Thomas Smith mutters “Shit!” and cocks his rifle as Gerald reaches for his pistol.

Then Ewing Young emerges from his own shelter. He waves impatiently at the weapons. “They’re friendlies,” Young says. He gives Smith a sharp look. “Unless you’re fool enough to start shootin’.”

Smith lowers his gun, his eyes narrow. “I ain’t never seen a friendly Injun that couldn’t turn unfriendly in a blink,” he says.

But Young’s eyes are on the Mojave leader moving toward him, his black-tattooed chin jutting belligerently.

“Pee-Posh,” the man says. He touches his black-striped chest, then makes a sweeping gesture toward the men behind him. Then his hand sweeps toward Young and his trappers. “Americano?”

Young nods, then they move into sign language. Smith leans toward Gerald. “They’re all named Peeposh,” he chuckles. “And they’ve all got tattoos on their chins like true savages.”

Gerald smiles, watching Young at his work. His hands move so swiftly Gerald has trouble understanding what he’s saying. But then one of the Indian men moves forward carrying a basket and he understands. This is a trading mission.

When it’s over, the trappers have two baskets of beans and more of the everlasting corn, and the Indians have red strips of cloth and eight skinned beaver carcasses.

But the Mojave don’t leave. The rain has finally drizzled to a stop and the sun is out. Gerald stands under a cottonwood and watches as, thirty feet away, the Indians dig several large holes in the ground, build fires in them, then add the gutted beaver. They cover the holes with dirt, leaving small apertures for the smoke. It’s a kind of pig roast, he realizes. Only with beaver.

By some mysterious process Gerald can’t ascertain, the Indians seem to know when the meat is ready. He watches as they claw the dirt aside, scrape the burnt crust off the meat, and proceed to feast.

Ignacio comes to stand beside Gerald. “It is like our matanza,” he says. “Although we might cook a sheep or a goat.” He chuckles. “I wonder what mi mamá would say to beaver. Or whether mi papá would be willing to eat it.” He shakes his head. “He is doubtful of the ways of the trapper. He says los americanos break the law for the joy of it.”

Gerald frowns. “What law are we breaking?”

“Not you, señor.” Ignacio glances over his shoulder. “It is Señor Young with whom he is concerned. He believes el señor does not deal honestly with our officials.”

Gerald looks at Ignacio, who continues to watch the Indians eat, their long black hair kept carefully away from their faces and food. “Does he have reason for his distrust?” Gerald asks.

Ignacio shrugs. “There have been incidents,” he says reluctantly. He glances at Gerald, then turns away. “I’m sure it is nothing.”

The Indians hang close for the next two days, eagerly accepting more beaver to roast. There’s plenty, as the traps yield thirty plews the first night, then another twenty. On the third day, the catch has dropped to ten and Young announces that it’s time to move out. The Indians drift away, presumably back to their village, and the trappers head upstream.

As far as Gerald can tell, the village the trappers come across three days later doesn’t belong to the men they traded with. The hamlet consists of two rows of brush and thatch huts. The trappers and their mules proceed between them. Tall woven baskets stand on low stilts beside the buildings, their contents protected by woven lids. Naked children and bare-breasted women with tattooed chins peek from behind the baskets and from inside the huts. There’s no sign of the men.

The trappers establish camp under a cluster of giant cottonwoods three miles north of the village and within a stone’s throw of the river. There’s a break in the thickets of cane and arrow weed, so they can get to the water easily, and a grazing meadow that surrounds the other three sides of the cottonwood grove.

Ignacio and the other camp keepers are just starting the evening meal when a group of Mojave men appear. Although their women had been timid, the men hold themselves proudly and look the Americans in the face. They’re dressed in breech clouts of woven strands of wood and the same paint as the Mojaves the trappers had traded with downriver.

Their leader is a thick-set man with a broad forehead and a black design tattooed on his chin and red and black stripes painted on his chest. His eyes are narrowed from years of sun glare. A bow and a quiver of arrows hang from his naked back.

He seems unconcerned about the language barrier. Even though Young has a rifle in his hands, the man confronts Young confidently. He points toward the river, then himself, the packs of furs, then himself again. Then he waves his hand at Young’s men, ranged around the camp fire, and shakes his head. He makes a dismissive gesture.

Gerald frowns. The man seems to be saying it’s his river, not theirs, and what comes from this river is his as well. He has a point. It is his land—his peoples’, anyway.

The Chief points at the mules and horses grazing nearby, then makes a scooping motion toward his chest.

Young’s eyes darken. “I ain’t givin’ you a horse,” he growls.

There’s no need to shake his head in denial. The Mojave understands. He frowns, points toward the river again, then himself. Then he gestures at the horses and makes another scooping gesture. He holds up a forefinger, then repeats the entire set of motions: the river, himself, the horses, the scoop.

“He just wants the one,” James Pattie says.

“And then he’ll want more,” Thomas Smith says. He turns and spits. “And more after that! You gonna give him your daddy’s mare?”

“Ain’t mine to give!” Pattie protests.

But Ewing Young and the Mojave ignore the side play. They face each other like two men about to duel, eyes steady, jaws set. Suddenly, the Chief’s hands move again, this time over his shoulder to the bow and arrows. In one fluid movement, there’s an arrow pointing at Young’s chest. The Mojave grins, almost playfully.

Thomas Smith’s rifle clicks. The Chief gives no notice he’s heard. He lifts the bow slightly and releases his arrow up over Young’s head, where it lodges solidly in the trunk of a big cottonwood.

Young turns and lifts his gun. A shot rings out and the arrow’s shaft breaks apart, the end tumbling to the ground. There’s a long silence, then the Chief nods and turns. His men follow him out of the grove.

The trappers watch them go. “That ain’t the last of him,” Thomas Smith says.

Young studies the arrowhead still stuck in the tree. He nods grimly. “There’ll be no trap setting tonight,” he announces. He turns and considers the campsite and the area between it and the river. “With the river behind us and the grassland on the other side of the trees, I suppose this is as good a place as any. And there’s plenty of deadfall.” He turns back to his men. “It’s time to fort up.”

Trappers and camp keepers work side by side to pull deadwood and branches into position on the three sides of the tree-shaded camp not protected by the river. They herd the unwilling animals inside, then go back to work on the waist-high bulwark, reinforcing it with the packs of beaver pelts.

It’s dusk before they finish. They eat a cold meal, then settle down for the night. Young orders a double guard: two men on each side of the enclosure, one along the river, two-hour shifts, no smoking or talking. For once, no one complains.

No one sleeps much either. The horses and mules move restlessly as the guards pace inside their sections of the bulwark. Gerald lies with his eyes open, staring into a moonless sky, trying not to think about why the Indians will attack in the morning. The Chief’s request seems such a trivial thing. And such a fair one.

Young’s stubborn response, and the other trappers’ apparent agreement with him, makes Gerald wonder what really happened between Robidoux’s party and the Papago villagers. What triggered that initial attack? What small thing resulted in the death of all those men? He stares up at the sky. Even the stars seem dimmer than usual.

He doses off, then a mule snorts and he’s awake again, staring into the night. The waiting seems more painful than an attack could ever be. He knows this thought is nonsense. Yet time drags unnervingly in the unmoving blackness. Only the changes in guard mark its passing.

His own duty comes just as the sky begins to lighten and he’s finally drifted into a semi-sleep. Suddenly George Yount is shaking his shoulder and muttering, “Your time!” in his nasal Pennsylvania Dutch accent.

Gerald sits up sharply and his skull connects with Yount’s with a dull thud. The big man jerks back and glares at him, then breaks into a grin. “Didn’t think you was asleep, did ya?” he asks.

Gerald grins sheepishly and shakes his head.

Yount rubs his forehead. “That is one hard skull you got,” he says.

Gerald chuckles. “So my daddy says.” Smith, lying nearby, raises his head and growls wordlessly, and Gerald lowers his voice. “Which section?”

Yount gestures toward the center, facing the meadow, and Gerald nods, reaches for his rifle, and heads toward the wall of wood and beaver pelts.

It will be a beautiful day. He peers over the bulwark at the silent grass. Dew has collected on its long slender blades. The moisture glitters in the rising light, then evaporates as he watches. To his left, Michel Robidoux leads a small group of hobbled horses through the break between the fort and river and stations them to graze on the south side of the improvised wall.

Gerald glances at the trees overhead. A light breeze moves their leaves, setting up a small, joyful sound. The peacefulness of the morning is at odds with the tension of the night. He takes a deep breath.

As he lets it out, a man on horseback appears at the top of a small rise on the other side of the meadow. Gerald stiffens. It’s the Mojave Chief, a spear in his hand, a small collection of men on foot behind him.

Gerald opens his mouth, but Thomas Smith’s voice overrides his. “We’ve got company!”

Smith is beside Gerald before Ewing Young reaches the bulwark. Smith braces his rifle barrel on a convenient notch in the uppermost log and sights on the Chief. Then Young steps forward and pushes the barrel up and away. Smith scowls.

“Don’t go giving them any provocation,” Young says.

Smith mutters an imprecation Gerald can’t hear, but Young ignores him. He glances at Gerald. “Yours, too,” he says.

Gerald glances down. His rifle is also angled toward the oncoming men. He lowers the barrel and glances behind him. Trappers are scattered in small knots across the impromptu fort’s interior, all of them casually holding a loaded firearm as they appear not to watch the Mojave warriors. Only Young gazes straight at the Chief and his clutch of men as they move toward the American encampment.

When they’re close enough for conversation, the Chief reins in and begins making the same gestures he’d made the day before. He waves a hand at the grazing horses, still grazing outside the makeshift fort.

Young glances at the animals and scowls. He lifts his chin at the Chief. “I told you ‘no’!” he shouts. Then he raises his rifle barrel toward the sky. It roars defiantly.

The Chief’s mount stirs anxiously and the man’s eyes narrow until they’re mere black slits. His horse wheels, circling toward the grazing animals, and the Chief lifts his spear. As its point bites into the nearest horse’s side, the trappers’ rifles speak from the bulwark. The Chief tumbles from his mount. Two warriors gallop forward and gather him up. Then the Mojaves move off. Rifle fire follows them as they disappear over the rise.

“Any bets on how long it’ll take ’em to try it again?” Milt Sublette asks.

“I’m thinkin’ an hour or two,” Thomas Smith says. “They’ll need to sort out who’s gonna lead ’em the second time around.”

“I’m betting it’ll be longer than that,” Sublette says. “They’ll wanta dance a little and work their dander up.”

George Yount turns toward the opening by the river. “We must bring in the horses and tend to the wounded one.”

Ewing Young paces along the front of the bulwark, pushing branches into place, shoving fur packs more tightly into the gaps. “Yes, bring them in,” he says. “Then move them as close as you can toward the water, out of the way.” He tilts his head and looks up at the tops of the cottonwoods. “Garcia, you and Sandoval climb up into the branches there—” He points to a gnarled tree just inside the fort’s right-hand wall. “And there—” He points to a slightly smaller tree on the left. “Keep your eyes peeled and let out a holler as soon as you see them red devils comin’ back.”

The two young men nod and scramble into the trees. Then nothing happens. Young keeps them up there most of the day, spelled by Gerald and James Pattie when there’s food to be prepared and distributed.

The meal is stark, but no one besides Thomas Smith thinks fire is a good idea. He wants his coffee. There’s been none since the previous morning. No one pays much attention to his grumbling. They’re all too busy watching for the warriors who don’t come.

Darkness falls and the rain starts up again. Putting up any kind of shelter against the downpour will reduce the trappers’ ability to monitor any activity outside the bulwark walls. Even Thomas Smith doesn’t suggest it.

Instead, they sit in disconsolate huddles inside the makeshift fort, pieces of blanket, tent, or buckskin draped over their heads and shoulders, and try to catch a little sleep. Even guard duty is better than sitting in the mud. By the time the rain has stopped, the ground’s a muck-ridden mess.

They’re all stiff and cold in the morning, but the rain has stopped. As the trappers stretch themselves awake and beat warmth into their arms and legs, the Mojaves appear at the top of the rise, just out of rifle fire range. The dull thud of a drum reverberates across the meadow, setting up a steady heartbeat, then the warriors begin a shuffling dance, occasionally moving to one side to shoot a challenging arrow toward the fort. The arrows bite the ground well short of the bulwark, but the message is clear. We’re coming.

“Just limberin’ up,” Smith observes laconically. “’Fraid to get closer, I guess.”

“Unusual for Mojaves,” Ewing Young says. He strokes his chin. “As a general rule, they like surprise attacks. But I’m guessing they’ll be massing up shortly.” He turns to Gregorio. “Shimmy on up that tree again and see if you can spot anything beyond that bit of hill they’re dancin’ on.”

The camp keeper scrambles up the nearest cottonwood and cranes his neck. “There is nothing, señor,” he calls down. He gestures toward the Indians. “There are no more than what you see.”

Young nods thoughtfully, studying the rise. He turns to ask another question, but the warriors have spied movement in the tree. As Gregorio begins clambering down, they group together and move forward, their taunts filing the air.

Smith rushes past Young to the bulwark. “Alrighty boys!” Smith yells. “Have at ’em!”

Young scowls but doesn’t contradict the order. He moves to one side and checks his primer, then nods at Gerald. “Are you ready?” he asks.

Gerald nods grimly. Personally, he would have given the Chief a horse. Even two. It is his people’s river, after all. But it’s too late now for second guessing. He double checks his load and braces the rifle barrel in a branch that protrudes from the bulwark.

The trappers’ first volley stops the warriors in their tracks. Two Mojaves warriors go down and another staggers and grabs at his right shoulder. The rest dash to their fallen men, grab them up, then turn and flee toward the village.

Thomas Smith scrambles over the bulwark wall and races after the fleeing warriors, LeDuc and Yount close behind him. Ewing Young watches them dispassionately, then turns to the remaining men. “All right, let’s pack up and head out,” he says. “It’s just not profitable to waste time arguin’ with a bunch of savages. They’ve learned their lesson. And there’s not enough beaver left along here to make battling them worth our while, anyway.”

And with two men dead and another injured, the Mojaves are likely to return, looking for vengeance, Gerald reflects as he helps disentangle the packs of beaver pelts from the fort’s improvised walls. Young is wise to move on. But Gerald is careful to keep his expression blank. After all, Young is the man paying the bills. He notices that when Smith and the others return, they don’t object to the move either.

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.

Fiction and Fact From Old New Mexico

LorettaMilesTollefson.com

Tag: Loretta Miles Tollefson

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 30

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 29

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 28

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 27

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 26

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 25

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 24

October Sale!

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 23

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 22

Menu

LorettaMilesTollefson.com

CHAPTER 30

Share this:

CHAPTER 29

Share this:

CHAPTER 28

Share this:

CHAPTER 27

Share this:

CHAPTER 26

Share this:

CHAPTER 25

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

CHAPTER 22

Share this:

Menu