The following material is an extract from NOT JUST ANY MAN, A Novel of Old New Mexico, Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson. Published by Palo Flechado Press, Santa Fe, NM
A Note about Spanish Terms: This novel is set in northern New Mexico and reflects as much as possible the local dialect at that time. Even today, Northern New Mexico Spanish is a unique combination of late 1500s Spanish, indigenous words from the First Peoples of the region and of Mexico, and terms that filtered in with the French and American trappers and traders. I’ve tried to represent the resulting mixture as faithfully as possible. My primary source of information was Rubén Cobos’ excellent work, A Dictionary of New Mexico and Southern Colorado Spanish (University of New Mexico Press, 2003). Any errors in spelling, usage, or definition are solely my responsibility.
CHAPTER 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.
Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson
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Fiction and Fact From Old New Mexico 