NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 34

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 34

In the morning, the men and mules move down the ravine, following the half-frozen water that trickles through it. The gulch runs straight south for a long while, then swings north until Gerald begins to wonder if they’re wise to follow it. After all, the valley lies to the south.

But they’re still headed downhill and the snow is still falling on the slopes behind them, so he doesn’t voice his concern. Though he does breath more easily when the stream turns again, twisting northeast and then south.

They camp that night at what appears to be the fullest part of a deep curve that bends north and east. The ravine has widened a little and its slopes are more broadly angled and lower than they’ve been.

Snow still threatens and there’s no sign of huntable wildlife. Even the birds are stilled by the heavy clouds. The two men are reduced to eating flour and water mashed into a paste, then spiraled around green sticks and cooked over the smoky fire.

At least there’s water. In the morning, Gerald breaks ice from the edge of the tiny stream and gingerly fills his canteen. With luck, the liquid will warm a little before his thirst compels him to try it. At the moment, it’s bound to be toothbreakingly cold.

When he returns to the fire, Ramón has his rifle in his lap, checking the load. “It may be that the elk have all moved into the valley,” he says. “Perhaps there will be meat to eat with our bread tonight.”

Gerald grins. “Oh, is that what you call what we’ve been eating?”

Ramón’s smile flashes. “It is not the bread of Encarnación,” he says. “But for that we must return to Don Fernando de Taos.”

Gerald looks at the pack on his mule’s back, ready for the day. “There aren’t enough furs in that pack to warrant a return just yet,” he says. “More’s the pity.”

Ramón grins. “But how delicioso that bread will be when we taste it again,” he says. “After my poor attempts.”

“I wasn’t criticizing your bread,” Gerald says apologetically. “I’d just like some meat to go with it.”

Ramón chuckles. “I also am weary of my so-called bread,” he says. “And I too wish for meat.” He turns his head and tilts it to look at the just-visible mountain peaks to the west. “Let us hope those clouds stay behind us and do not descend with us down the ravine.”

They kill the fire and head out, still following the stream, which is starting to actually look like it means to become a creek at some point. Gerald shakes his head ruefully. Back in Missouri, this trickle of moisture wouldn’t be given the honor of a name. But he’s willing to bet there’s a map somewhere where it’s drawn clearly and given a label. He chuckles. If its water runs all year, it’ll even be designated a river.

The sun is doing its best to make itself seen through the bank of clouds in the east. It isn’t producing much light or much warmth, but it seems to promise an end to the grayness and snow.

There’s a break in the trees ahead and Gerald’s heart lifts. The valley, at last. But when they reach the open space, he sees that the stream is merely curving south through a frozen meadow toward yet another mountain. Snow-bound grassy slopes block the view on either side.

Gerald suppresses a groan of frustration. The grass is a hopeful sign, but the mountain ahead is discouraging. Yet, the mules’ heads are up and Ramón is nodding in satisfaction. As they swing south alongside the rivulet of water, frozen grass crunching beneath their feet, Gerald sees why.

The narrow stretch of grass between them and the mountain ahead curves around its base and stretches beyond to form a peninsula of grass that reaches into the larger valley below. As Gerald pauses to take it in, the sun breaks through the clouds. The white snow gleams joyfully back at him.

He jiggles his mule’s lead rope and follows Ramón along the stream. The ground is slightly mushy underfoot now and the snow is already melting from the grass. The mules snatch mouthfuls as they pass, and the men slow a little to allow them to forage and to adjust their own eyes to the brightness.

Ahead of him, Ramón suddenly raises his arm and waves it toward the base of the mountain that had seemed so ominous. Gerald turns, narrowing his eyes against the glare. Elk scatter the lower slopes, browsing contentedly, apparently oblivious to the men and their mules. Ramón’s arm moves again, to the south, and Gerald sees another hillside with yet another herd. Ramón turns toward Gerald and grins. “Meat for our bread,” he calls.

Gerald chuckles and nods. What a valley it is. A snowy Garden of Eden. Water, browse, meat. What more could a man want? Suzanna Peabody’s bemused eyes rise before him. Well, that also. If that’s possible. But, for now, the meat and the beauty seems almost enough. He lifts his voice toward Ramón. “Shall we find a place to camp and then go hunting, or shoot first and camp later?”

~ ~ ~ ~

But of course, no section of real estate is truly a Garden of Eden unmarked by human activity. The report of Ramón and Gerald’s rifles and the subsequent elk stampede down the valley is bound to be noticed by other meat seekers.

Gerald and Ramón are hunkered over an afternoon fire at the base of one of the half-dozen long low rises that bisect the valley when the mules nicker anxiously. Immediately, the men are on their feet, rifles in hand, the fire between them as they stand back to back, eyes scanning the snow-spotted slopes.

An Indian man, in the long braids and beaded buckskins of the Utes, rises from the grass twenty yards out, palms up to show he comes without weapons. Ramón says “Heh!” and Gerald turns his head slightly.

“How many?” Gerald asks.

“Just one, I think. No, there’s another.”

Gerald nods, his eyes sweeping the grasses within his gaze. “I think— No, there’s another.” He frowns. “A youngsters,” he says in a relieved tone.

“Ute youngsters can also shoot.”

Gerald chuckles. “Very true.” He swings his head. “Just the three, then. All with hands open. Shall we call them in?”

Ramón shrugs. “If we don’t, they may shoot. If we do, they may shoot.”

Gerald laughs and raises his arm to beckon the Utes forward. As they come closer, he squints. “I think I may know the tall one.”

Ramón nods. “As do I. It is Stands Alone.” He looks carefully at the boy. “And his son Little Squirrel. They come to Taos sometimes, to trade. It is three years since I have seen them.” He lifts a hand in greeting as the tallest of the men reaches the campfire.

“My friend,” Stands Alone responds. He nods to Gerald. “You I have met before. With the Lone Elk of the red hair. Did you find the beaver you sought?”

Gerald nods. “You directed us well. We made a good catch.”

“And now you have returned.” It isn’t a question, but somehow it requires an answer.

“Yes.” Gerald turns. His eyes sweep the valley, then move to the Ute. “It is a good place.”

“It is.” Stands Alone turns and nods toward his companions. “This is my friend Many Eagles and my son Little Squirrel.” The men and boy nod to each other. “I see you have found meat,” Stands Alone says.

“But not beaver just yet, so we were forced to shoot elk,” Gerald says, remembering their previous conversation.

A smile glimmers across the Ute’s face. “So you have no fat.” He turns to his son and says something in Ute. The boy pulls a section of beaver tail from the pouch at his waist. “It is now we who have fat.”

“Perhaps we should combine them,” Ramón says. He turns to the boy. “Yours and mine together will make a fine meal. And we have flour for bread.”

~ ~ ~ ~

They eat until they are satiated, then Ramón places thin strips of the remaining meat on the rocks that fringe the fire. “The jerked meat will be good for your travels,” he tells Stands Alone.

“It is good,” the Ute says. “No waste.”

“It would be a shame to waste anything of this valley,” Gerald says. He looks out over the broad sweep of it. The snow is melting in earnest now. Elk and deer graze the hillsides, although well out of gunshot range. A business-like coyote trots across a boggy area below, nose straight before him. “The grasses indicate that the soil here is rich.”

Stands Alone looks at him. “The grass is good feed for the elk and deer. And sometimes the antelope and buffalo.”

Gerald adds a small piece of wood to the fire. “And would also do well for beef cattle.”

Stands Alone grimaces. “Sharp hoofed and stupid. Bad for the stream banks.” Then he grins mischievously. “But good for the wolves and the catamount.”

“If a man lived here and watched over them, cattle might do well.”

On the other side of the fire, Many Eagles moves impatiently.

“If a man lives here, the eagles might leave,” Stands Alone says.

“If a man who respects the eagles lives here, he will not encroach on their nests and they will not wish to leave.”

“The big eagles, the ones you call the golden, will eat small calves.”

Gerald shrugs. “If most of the calves survive, the ones that are taken will not be missed.”

“Rich man,” Stands Alone observes.

Gerald shakes his head. “No, not a rich man. Just a realistic one. We must all pay for what we use. A calf now and then to the eagles or the wolves is a fair trade for use of the land.”

Ramón glances at Stands Alone. “And to those who have used it before you?” he asks.

Gerald spreads his hands. “Surely there is room for all.”

“One American comes and others follow,” Many Eagles says grimly.

Ramón grins. “But not to last through a winter.”

Stands Alone chuckles. His eyes slide to Gerald, then back to Ramón. “The winter winds here will push them away,” he says. He and Ramón chuckle companionably.

Gerald raises an eyebrow. “I have encountered these winds,” he says mildly. “I was here last winter with Old Bill.”

“You would be without a woman.” Stands Alone grins at Many Eagles and says something in Ute. Many Eagles chuckles and shakes his head. “Women do not like the winters here,” Stands Alone says to Gerald. He gestures toward the Cimarron. “They stay below in the warm valley, the one of the Utes.”

“I don’t have a woman,” Gerald says.

“You never know what might transpire,” Ramón says.

Gerald glances at him, then returns his focus to Stands Alone. “A man who lives here will be rich enough to share with his friends,” he says. He glances at Many Eagles. “And their friends.”

Stands Alone nods, then shrugs. “It is not for me to say. Many bands of differing tribes travel these mountains to hunt and trade.”

Gerald nods. He looks up and his eyes touch the grassy swales, the marshy area where the Cimarron River heads, and the green-black mountain slopes on the valley’s eastern edge. “It’s only an idea,” he says. “Something to think on.” He glances at the other men. “There’s also the matter of money and cattle, which I don’t possess.” He shakes his head. “I may never have the means to do what I wish.”

“You never know what might transpire,” Ramón says again.

“The meat, it jerks?” Little Squirrel asks his father, and the men turn to teasing the boy about his two hollow legs.

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November Sale!

My novel The Pain and the Sorrow is on sale through Friday, November 22. The ebook is $.99 and is available in Kindle and other formats. The paperback (available through Amazon) is $10.99.

At the foot of a lonely mountain pass between Taos and Elizabethtown, a single log cabin huddles under the pines. Travelers are invited inside to stop, rest, and eat.

But they should be careful how they look at the young woman who serves them. Her husband, Charles Kennedy, is subject to jealous rages. At least, he says that’s why he kills the unwary: It’s all Gregoria’s fault.

Based on a true story.

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 33

Gerald finds to his surprise that, in the company of Ramón Chavez, some of the pleasure of trapping returns. The man is quiet, but certainly not taciturn or sullen. He is simply who he is, with no axe to grind, nothing to prove. Unlike the querulous and opinionated Old Bill Williams, Chavez rarely speaks. But when he does, what he says is sensible and without rancor, even when he talks of the Indians.

After William’s loquacity and the casual violence and deceptiveness of the men in Ewing Young’s trapping party, Ramón’s temperament and attitudes are a welcome change. His deep affection for the Peabody’s, which is apparent in any reference to them, also goes a long way toward fueling Gerald’s respect for the older man.

They take the same route into the mountains that Gerald and Williams had used. Ramón has trapped the Red River before and can give advice on side streams that might be of value, especially in the upper forks. While Gerald’s instinct that there will once again be beaver where he and Old Bill trapped proves valid, Ramón’s knowledge adds even further to their take. They work their way steadily to the river’s headwaters.

Two days after they reach the mountain lakes, the first snow hits. There isn’t much, perhaps two inches. But Ramón looks at their icy blankets and the lead-gray sky and shakes his head. “There will be more today and then tomorrow,” he predicts. “It is time to head downward.” He turns to Gerald. “We can move back down the river, or we can work south through the mountains toward Mora, or move east to the dark valley.”

“The dark valley?”

“The one they call the Moreno.” Ramón shrugs. “The pines, they are very dark on the mountainsides there.”

“I have seen that valley twice now,” Gerald says noncommittally. “There are streams from it that hold beaver. But there are no beaver in the valley itself.”

“But the valley itself is a thing to be seen,” Ramón says. “I have not been there in many years and would view it again.”

Gerald gives him a surprised look. Is this man drawn to those slopes the way he is?

“I have been told there is gold in the streams that flow through the valley,” Ramón continues. “Not much, but a little.” He looks up at the gloomy clouds overhead. “Though this is not the season for searching for such things.”

“Perhaps in the summer,” Gerald agrees. “The valley grass is long and green in the summer. The water there seems to run year round.”

“It is very cold in the winter though,” Ramón says.

Gerald looks up at the snow-heavy clouds moving steadily down the mountain toward them. “It’s still a thing worth seeing.”

Ramón grins. “Then let us see it,” he says.

Moving directly east requires them to flounder up a rocky bank that seems almost vertical in places. The mules snort disapprovingly as the men lead them over the slippery rocks. Finally, the slope levels out and they stand at one end of a rock-covered saddle between two boulder-strewn slopes. The mountain peaks behind them are shrouded in clouds.

The storm has begun in earnest now and the ground is slick underfoot. A cold wetness swirls into their faces and seeps into their clothing. They move forward slowly, glad for the saddle’s relatively flat terrain but wary of its broken slabs of sandstone and shale. The mules twitch their ears and snort irritably but keep moving, picking their way across the field of rock.

Ramón and Gerald pause at the point where the saddle widens and begins to slope downward. They exchange grim looks through the haze of white flakes. The spaces between the rocks underfoot are filling rapidly with snow, making the surface look deceptively smooth. One false step will twist a man’s ankle for him. With this downward slant, the resulting fall would be nasty and long.

“I think perhaps the mules should lead us,” Ramón says. “They will feel a footing where we cannot see.”

Gerald nods, too cold to argue. Ramón pats his mule’s shoulder, speaks a few words into its ear, then moves backward, playing out the lead rope as he goes. When he reaches the animal’s rump, he snaps it with the rope. The mule turns its head and gives him a reproachful look. Ramón snaps the rope again. The animal snorts in annoyance and starts down the slope, the man well behind, letting the mule take the lead, careful to hang onto the rope but not to put any pressure on it. Gerald follows numbly beside his own animal, keeping to the track Ramón and his mule are creating, fighting for traction on the slick snow.

It’s two frozen hours before they drop into a narrow ravine, out of the worst of the storm. Because the walls of the gulch block the wind, the snow is thinner here. Gerald’s very knees are numb with cold. He hears Ramón speaking to his mule and realizes the other man is once again level with his animal’s head. Gerald moves forward stiffly.

Ramón grins. “He did well, did he not?”

“He did.” Gerald looks around. “Do you think we’re far enough down to safely shelter for the night?”

Ramón shakes his head. “It is hard to say.” He looks around. Two massive sandstone slabs twice a man’s height jut from the slope to their right. The big rocks are perhaps eight feet apart, but lean into each other and form a sheltered space between them. Ramón moves toward it and peers in, then turns, his eyes amused. “There is strong evidence this will provide the shelter we seek,” he says. “Someone has been here before us.”

Gerald moves up beside him and peers into the space. There’s a circle of stones on one side and a small collection of broken deadfall tucked under a cleft in the far rock. With a little crowding, there’s enough space for two men and their mules. The surface of the boulders are marked with figures and symbols scratched deep into the sandstone surface, some of them partly obscured with lichen. “Indians?” he asks.

“So it would seem.”

He frowns. “Is it wise for us to use it?”

“No one else is here,” Ramón points out. “And we need shelter.”

Gerald nods and clucks at his mule.

There’s something about an enclosed space and a warm fire that brings out reminiscences and confidences in the most reserved of men. Ramón speaks of his childhood, the simple poverty that seemed a kind of wealth, and an uncle who killed a man but didn’t suffer any consequences, because his vecinos considered the death justified.

Gerald stares into the fire. “I also have killed,” he says. He grimaces. “Or I believe that I have.” He glances up. Ramón watches him impassively. Gerald turns his head away. “Last season. With Ewing Young’s expedition.”

“Enoch Jones did not return,” Ramón says.

Gerald looks up in surprise, but now the other man’s head is turned away. It’s somehow easier to say the words to the back of his head. “I stabbed him,” Gerald says. “He was threatening harm and I stabbed him.” His hand twitches, feeling the blade sinking inexorably between Jones’ ribs. His breath catches, but he forces himself to finally say it. “I stabbed him in the chest. Hard. Not enough to simply stop him, but also to cut open the flesh between his ribs.” He swallows. “He ran into the woods and there was no sign of him after that.” He shakes his head. “But no man could live with that kind of wound and no doctoring.”

“Jones is the man who followed la señorita,” Ramón says. “And also Chonita.”

Gerald looks up. “He was bothering her also? Even after that time in the plaza? What a bastard!”

“A good man to be killed.”

There’s a long silence as both men stare into the darkness. Then Gerald says, “I haven’t told the Peabody’s.”

“And will you?”

“I should. I must, if I am to—”

“Ask for her hand?” Ramón sounds a little amused.

Gerald studies the fire. “I have no right,” he says. “And certainly no resources. And she’s given me no encouragement.”

“Hmm.”

“And there’s the matter of Jones’ death.”

“Por que?”

“Because a man should tell a woman everything about himself.”

There’s a long silence. “Por que?” Ramón asks again.

Gerald glances at him in surprise. “Because— Well, because it’s right, I suppose. It’s a matter of conscience, of being honest and truthful.”

Ramón stirs and stands, stretching his legs. “I have learned much since you americanos have come to my country,” he says. “One of the things I have learned is that truth is not always what it seems and to be honest is sometimes to lose more than the honesty is worth.”

Gerald raises an eyebrow.

Ramón shrugs and lifts his hands, palms up. “But to each of us a different thing is important,” he says. “To Suzanna Peabody the death of Jones may come as a welcome piece of news. She may find what you have done a cause for rejoicing.” He frowns and tilts his head. “That is perhaps too strong a word. I cannot imagine that she would rejoice at the death of any man. But surely it is for her to decide what secrets must be told and which truths are necessary.” He shrugs and moves away to lay out his blankets and prepare for bed.

Gerald stares into the flames for a long while before he follows the other man’s example and composes himself to sleep as the mules send their breath into the space over his head.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 32

Ewing Young disposes of his furs, damaged as they are, and Gerald receives his pay—a little over $300. It’s now mid-August and the fur brigades for the coming season are starting to form, but Gerald’s aversion to the entire process hasn’t receded. Or maybe it’s just Ewing Young who no longer feels honest to him.

Not that Young has asked Gerald to participate in another hunt. The older man is staying in Taos this winter. He claims to be recuperating from his Santa Fe imprisonment, but Jeremiah Peabody seems to think Young is simply lying low.

Gerald has to admit that there are some things he does like about trapping. The wilderness has a definite appeal, and he enjoyed his time with Old Bill Williams, even if the man did have an opinion about just about everything. There are men like Ewing Young in any walk of life. Certainly, there are bound to be men like Enoch Jones in any given group of Americans. Staying away from trapping is no guarantee that he won’t meet someone else with Jones’ attitudes. But Gerald’s mind veers away from that topic, which still hasn’t come up in the Peabody parlor.

His discomfort with trapping really began with the ugliness that erupted on the Gila and again outside the Mojave villages. The killing there, and then the unremitting butchering when beaver was plentiful. There was just so much blood. He grimaces. And then the blood from Enoch Jones’ chest. His hands twitch, remembering the feel of the blade, the way is sank so easily—

He pushes the thought away and focuses on the recent events in Santa Fe. That whole episode was also slippery and uncomfortable. The kind of transaction that seem to be central to the life Ewing Young and the other trappers seem to glory in.

Is he being too squeamish? He doesn’t think so. But he needs to do something. As he walks the dusty Taos streets, Gerald ponders his options. There are other trapping groups forming, in spite of the government prohibition against American trappers. Word has filtered north from the copper mines that James Pattie and his father are recruiting men for another trip into the Gila. Rumor has it that they plan to push west from there, into California.

Here in Taos, Sylvester Pratte is putting together a group of thirty men for a venture north into the Rockies. Old Bill has signed up with them. Gerald chuckles. Williams working with a large group of trappers. Given the man’s strong opinions and his antipathy toward trapping with others, that should be interesting for all involved.

Gerald stops in mid-stride. Pratte’s group is heading to North Park and the Platte River. Which means Old Bill will be far north of the mountains east of Taos, the long valley and the streams that flow from it and the peaks around it—Red River, the Cimarron, Coyote Creek. Is there enough beaver there to justify a trapping excursion of his own? Would such a venture net enough that he could return to Taos with enough funds for land and a cabin?

Suzanna Peabody’s dark eyes flash into his mind. Gerald forces the thought to one side. Land and a cabin are enough to hope for. He shouldn’t set his sights too high. She may very well prefer to set up housekeeping with someone else.

And she doesn’t know what he’s done. What he’s capable of doing. Who he really is, on several levels. His courage shrinks when he thinks about telling her. Yet how can he not? He who disdains the dishonesty, the slipperiness of others, still hasn’t been forthcoming about his own failures. Regardless of how she might feel about his ancestry, there’s always the death of Enoch Jones.

He wants to forget it all, to push Jones and the events in the Gila wilderness into a dark hole in his memory. But the man haunts him even when he doesn’t haunt him. The dreams are mostly gone now, but still there’s the constant dread that someone will tell the Peabody’s about what happened. Suzanna will be puzzled and hurt that he hasn’t told her, and yet he somehow can’t find the right time or the words.

But the story of Jones’ death is a small thing compared to the issue of his own heritage, of who his father is. He’s going to have to tell her. But here too, Gerald finds himself putting it off. She has a right to know. At least, he hopes that she has a right to know. Yet his stomach twists when he considers how she may react. Will she despise him for something he can’t help but be? Or will she feel only contempt for a man who hasn’t been truthful with her from the beginning? Or will she not care, because she doesn’t really care about him, one way or another? He can’t bear to think about how she might react, yet he knows delay is only going to make the discussion more difficult when—if—it comes.

He turns his thoughts to the streams that surround the long valley to the east. It’s dangerous to venture into the mountains alone, yet the beaver would be all his, the rewards higher. Gerald grimaces. And then there’s the moral dilemma. Americans are forbidden to trap in nuevomexico. All of Mexico, for that matter. But there’s little else he can do to earn money, unless he hires on with one of the outgoing Santa Fe trains and returns to Missouri.

But there’s nothing for him in Missouri but repression and insults. Besides, Suzanna Peabody—although so far out of reach to him—is here in nuevomexico. He can’t bring himself to truly consider leaving.

He sets himself to considering his options, instead. If the beaver have returned to the Red River, the Cimarron, and Coyote Creek, the trapping is simple enough. Smuggling the plews into Taos that will be the problem.

Not that it would be very difficult. It’s just that it’s against the law. Is he really willing to take part in the subterfuge men like Young engage in? Yet it might be necessary to accomplish his goal. He’s mentioned the idea to Suzanna, the idea of going east into the Sangres to trap. She seemed less than enthusiastic. The illegality of it seemed to concern her.

There’s another option. A citizen can trap legally, no matter where he’s originally from. Some of the American and French-Canadian trappers are turning Catholic and becoming Mexican citizens in order to have free access to Mexico’s hunting grounds.

But even if he was willing to become Mexican, there isn’t time to complete the naturalization process before the season begins. It takes a good year or more. And, given Governor Armijo’s attitude toward Americans, he’s unlikely to support an application for citizenship that isn’t accompanied by considerable financial incentives. Gerald suspects that even all he has wouldn’t be enough.

He’s still frowning over his lack of options when he turns into the Peabody gate. Suzanna is bending over her pepper plants, which are planted along the courtyard’s south wall. She’s pouring water from a small wooden bucket into the ground at their roots. A short wiry Mexican man who looks vaguely familiar is at the well on the other end of the courtyard, transferring water into a larger bucket.

Suzanna looks up as Gerald comes through the gateway. “Hola!” she says cheerfully. She turns to the Mexican man with a smile. “Ramón, this is the gentleman we were speaking of earlier.” She nods to Gerald. “This is Ramón Chavez, a cousin—” She looks at Ramón, who grins at her. Suzanna chuckles. “A relation,” she corrects herself. “A relation of both our Chonita and her cousin Antonia.”

Gerald and the shorter man nod politely at each other. Ramón hefts the bucket toward Suzanna and gives her a questioning look. “Oh, yes!” she says. She puts her container on the ground and the Mexican man crosses the courtyard and begins filling it from the larger one.

Suzanna looks at Gerald. “Ramón has been helping me water the plants and giving me advice on the best way to keep everything from wilting in this heat.” She glances at the sky. “The monsoon rains should have started by now, but they haven’t been cooperating.”

Ramón chuckles. “They are testing your faith, señorita,” he says.

“My faith in the monsoons, at any rate!” she laughs. She turns, empties the small bucket around the pepper plants, sets it down, and turns to Gerald. “Will you come in? My father will be pleased to see you.”

It’s her standard formula, which usually fills him with pleasure, but there’s something about the way she says it today, a kind of tentativeness to her look, that sends a unexpected chill down his spine. Will only her father be pleased to see him? What about herself? Has someone told her about Jones? His race?

But he can’t bring himself to ask any of these questions, especially in front of a stranger. Especially one who looks at Suzanna as this Ramón Chavez does. There’s no deference in the man. The affection in his glance says he’s confident of the girl’s good opinion. Almost as if there’s an understanding between them. Gerald follows Suzanna numbly into the house.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see!” Jeremiah Peabody says as they enter the parlor. He stands and crosses the room, reaching for Gerald’s hand. “I have a proposition for you that might benefit us both.”

“Papa, you’re beginning to sound as hasty as you claim that I am,” Suzanna says with amusement. “At the very least, let Mr. Locke take off his hat and sit down.”

Peabody laughs and gestures to a chair. “That was rather precipitous of me!” he says ruefully. “Please forgive me. How are you today, Mr. Locke? Have you decided what you will do with your time, this coming season?”

Gerald shakes his head, his fear lifting as he takes his seat. “I’m still undecided,” he says. “Somehow another expedition like last fall’s doesn’t appeal to me.”

“I’m going to see about the tea things,” Suzanna says. She crosses the room and goes out.

The men watch her go, Gerald trying not to let his eyes linger.

“Was Ramón Chavez still here when you arrived?” her father asks.

Gerald’s chest tightens. He forces himself to nod calmly.

“I’ve known Ramón many years,” Peabody says. “He and I trapped together my first season here.” He smiles ruefully. “He trapped, at any rate. I discovered that such a life is not truly my calling.” He smiles a little. “As I think you have also.” He pauses, and Gerald gives him a rueful smile. Peabody nods. “Ramón’s a good man, and a valuable one,” he says. “He seems to know or be related to everyone in nuevomexico, which is a valuable thing in an associate here.”

Suzanna returns, carrying the tea tray, and Gerald leaps to take it from her and place it on the table. As she begins to pour the tea, she glances at her father. “Have you told him about Ramón?”

Gerald’s chest tightens again at the tone in her voice. He looks at her father.

“I was just about to explain his relationship to us,” Peabody answers. “It might be easier if you did so.”

Suzanna chuckles and hands Gerald his cup. She tilts her head. “Let’s see. Ramón Chavez is the brother-in-law of Chonita’s sister’s husband and the son of Antonia Garcia’s uncle by his second wife.”

She frowns. “I think that’s correct.” She frowns, considering. “I’m not sure what that makes Ramón and Chonita to each other.” She shrugs. “At any rate, he’s also a dear friend of my father’s and is my godfather, although I wasn’t technically baptized, since we aren’t Catholic.” She glances at her father. “Although Ramón was hardly more than a child himself when I was born, he agreed to provide for me if something should happen to papá before I was of age, God forbid.”

Gerald feels the clutch of discomfort in his stomach easing. “He seems a nice man,” he concedes.

“Ramón has been in and out of Taos the past eighteen months, and his presence never seems to have coincided with your own,” Jeremiah says. “That’s why you haven’t met him.” He shifts in his chair. “But now he’s decided that he’d like to find a way to make a substantial sum and is searching for a way to do that.” He gives Gerald a small nod. “He feels as you do about the trapping business, especially about how the American trappers manipulate the government officials to achieve their ends.”

Gerald looks at him, wondering where this is going. Jeremiah turns to Suzanna. “Could I trouble you for another cup of tea, my dear?”

Suzanna nods and crosses the room to take his empty cup. Gerald feels his eyes following her, then wrenches them back to her father.

“It seems to me that you might do worse,” he is saying.

“Worse?” Gerald asks.

“I think that Ramón might be of assistance to you,” Jeremiah Peabody says, apparently repeating something he’s already said. “It’s never wise for a man to go alone into the mountains, but he has a particular desire to trap this next season. Regardless of the business’s less savory aspects, it still has the potential to bring a high return. If the two of you partner as free trappers, there would be a mutual benefit. Also, since he is Mexican, the legality of your activity would not be questioned.”

“And Ramón is an excellent and enthusiastic cook,” Suzanna says. “I suspect he’d be more than happy to take on that responsibility.”

Jeremiah Peabody flashes a smile. “That would certainly be a consideration if you were going with them,” he teases. “Given your lack of enthusiasm for cookery.”

She chuckles. “And lack of skill,” she says ruefully. She turns to Gerald. “I hope you’ll consider partnering with him,” she says. “You mentioned going back into the Sangres. It would be a comfort—” She stops, her face flushing. She looks down and smooths the fabric of her dress across her lap. “That is, I would be glad to know he had someone with him in the wilderness. The mountains are not safe for a man alone.”

So it’s Chavez’s safety she’s concerned about. Gerald turns to Jeremiah Peabody. “I would need to speak with him,” he says stiffly.

Peabody’s eyes drift from his daughter’s face to Gerald’s. A smile twitches his lips. “Let me see if he is still in the house,” he says as he rises. “I suspect he will be in the kitchen with Encarnación.”

As he leaves the room, Suzanna lifts her gaze from her skirts. She gives Gerald a conspiratorial smile. “When he’s in Taos, Ramón spends as much time as he can in Chonita’s kitchen,” she says. “Since he can cook and bake as well as she can, we believe that the attraction is not truly the food.”

Gerald raises an eyebrow, trying to keep the hope from his face.

“He doesn’t quite have the financial resources he believes he needs in order to offer her a home.” Suzanna turns her dark eyes on him, the pleading plain. “He is very dear to us, and it would be a gift to my father and to me if you would agree to partner with him.” She smiles mischievously. “And to Chonita, as well.”

The knot in Gerald’s chest smooths itself out. “It seems a good plan,” he says. “But of course I’ll need to talk with him myself. He may not be agreeable to the idea.”

She gives him a glowing smile as her father ushers Ramón Chavez into the room.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 31

When Gerald repeats this observation a week later in the cozy Taos parlor, Jeremiah Peabody chuckles and Suzanna laughs out loud. “I’ve never thought of the fur business as ephemeral,” she says as she pours Gerald’s tea. “Those plews certainly seem solid enough, although lightweight.”

“The trade certainly has become complicated.” Her father turns to Gerald. “While you were in Santa Fe, Thomas Smith and Maurice LeDuc hid their furs in a cave somewhere near La Cienega and then came into Taos to make sure the coast was clear before they brought them in. They’d apparently had a run-in with someone in authority northwest of Santa Fe.” He nods at Gerald. “I hear they also exchanged money and goods before a resolution was found. Deception and half-truths seem to be very popular these days.”

“The truth certainly doesn’t seem to be very popular,” Suzanna says. “Ignacio Sandoval’s father was assaulted by an American trapper because Ignacio reported Ewing Young to the authorities. Fortunately, the alcalde was nearby and intervened.” She shakes her head. “I hate to think what might have happened to Señor Sandoval simply because he believes people should obey the law.”

“There aren’t many like him, either Spanish or American,” Gerald says glumly. “Too many people either change the rules or don’t want to live by them. Personally, I’d prefer to make a living doing something less subject to interpretation.”

Jeremiah Peabody hefts the Latin tome he’s been holding. “This is why I prefer books and teaching,” he says. “Ultimately, my interpretation is mine alone.” He places the book on the small table beside him and grins at Suzanna. “Is there tea in that pot for me, my dear, or is Mr. Locke the only recipient of your largesse this afternoon?”

“You were busy with your book,” Suzanna teases. She fills a cup and hands it to him, then turns to Gerald. “Would you like more bread and butter?”

“No, thank you,” he says. He hesitates. “Did James Pattie send word that he had gone to Santa Rita?”

Suzanna shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” She turns to her father. “Did he have reason to inform you of his whereabouts, papá?”

Her father shakes his head and lifts his cup to his lips. Suzanna turns back to Gerald. “The plot that you found for my potatoes has produced beautifully!” she says eagerly. “Ramón helped me plant seed potatoes from last year’s crop and they seem to be doing nicely!” She glances at her father. “There were differences of opinion about how best to store them, so I tried three different methods, and both the straw and sand seemed to work equally well—”

Ramón? The name is familiar, but Suzanna’s eyes are on his. Gerald pushes the question aside and leans toward her, absorbed by both her words and her enthusiasm. Jeremiah Peabody returns to his book, a small smile on his lips.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 30

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.

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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.

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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?”

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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.

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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.

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Fiction and Fact From Old New Mexico

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Tag: Old New Mexico fiction

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 34

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 33

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 32

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 31

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

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CHAPTER 34

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CHAPTER 32

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CHAPTER 30

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CHAPTER 29

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CHAPTER 28

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CHAPTER 27

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CHAPTER 26

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