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

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

CHAPTER 25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Could of been a Mojave,” Sublette grumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s for sure,” Sublette grumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sacrebleu!” Robidoux swears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 24

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 23

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ ~ ~ ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 22

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gerald frowns. “What law are we breaking?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gerald grins sheepishly and shakes his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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

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

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

CHAPTER 20

But there are other things besides Jones to think about. After the fight, Michel Robidoux leads Ewing Young to the other side of the village, where he and his men had bedded down beside the Papago warriors. The trappers’ animals, guns, and ammunition have disappeared, but their bodies are still there. Even the most experienced men gag at the sight. Naked corpses are strewn across the campsite. Arms and bashed-in heads have been severed from torsos. Torn holes gape in stinking bellies and chests, although it’s not certain whether knives or beaks did the work. Ravens and vultures wheel overhead.

The trappers turn immediately to the task of burial. Once the top crust of sand and rock is clawed away and the damp soil underneath is exposed, the ten holes are easy enough to dig. Creating the stone cairns that will protect the dead from being dug up again is another matter.

But they definitely need protection. The birds of prey ride the sky in endless circles as the men lever rock out of the sides of the arroyo, haul it to the burial site, pile it into place, then scour the death site once again to make sure there’s nothing left for the birds or any other scavenger. In the process, Michel Robidoux stumbles on a cache of beaver traps, most of them mangled beyond repair. He picks through them and grimly collects the twelve that appear to be most mendable.

It’s a two-day task that leaves no time for anything else, so it’s easy enough for Gregorio to avoid any interaction with Jones. But once the trappers are back on the Salt and have returned with relief to the business of trapping, Jones picks up his program of harassment.

There’s a new edge to his attention, now. His eyes follow Gregorio around the camp. And he seems to be spending more time there than the other men. His trap lines are set in remarkably short order and he’s back with his morning haul well before any of the other men.

Under the constant surveillance, Gregorio’s work appears to slip. The sugar he’s left on the rock slab that serves as a table tumbles to the ground for no reason, the beaver skins he’s stretched fall from their tree branches in the night, the food he serves the men is sprinkled with grit or is too salty to eat.

Jones points out every error. Gregorio keeps his eyes down and goes about his business without comment, without apologizing for the mistakes he hasn’t made. At first, Ignacio tries to intervene, to point out Jones’ proximity when the sugar falls or to monitor the cooking pot so Jones can’t get near it. The trapper simply begins playing tricks on Ignacio, too.

Gerald watches it all helplessly, well aware that any intervention on his part will only make the situation worse. What he doesn’t understand is why Ewing Young doesn’t step in. Can’t he see what Jones is up to? But Young seems oblivious to what’s going on.

But then, Young has other things to worry about. He’s pulled the trappers off the Gila River and turned them northeast, up the Black. The narrow river canyon is thick with beaver. The big rodents have created a series of dams and the water seeps for miles between the dry hills at the base of the rugged cliffs on either side of the stream. The men have to wade through knee high marsh and fight through dense thickets of scraping willow, but the take in pelts is worth the discomfort. They trap steadily onward.

The hills on either side are dry rock spotted with patches of dusty juniper. Their bleakness makes the valley, with the long-stemmed grasses, bushy willow, and wild rosebushes that crowd the edges of the beaver ponds, even more inviting. Beyond the smaller stuff, where the ground is more elevated, is a narrow strip of juniper, cedar, and occasional ponderosa, the ground underneath crowded with undergrowth. Even in February, with no leaves showing yet, the brush makes for hard going unless a man stays at the base of the dry hills or is lucky enough to stumble onto a dim animal track.

Eighty miles up, the river forks. Young divides the men into two groups, one to each branch, separating Jones and Gregorio in the process. Jones, Pattie, Smith, and Maurice LeDuc move with Young’s party up the fork that heads due north. Gregorio, Ignacio, and Gerald join Robidoux, Sublette, and George Yount in the party that moves up the northeast branch.

Not having Jones around makes life more pleasant, although there’s little time for anything but the drudgery of trapping, butchering, and stretching skins day in and day out. The scenery changes as they move upstream, and the air cools as the elevation rises. Gerald is surprised at the relief he feels at the temperature change. Then he realizes it’s not really the heat he objects to. It’s the fact that it’s this hot in February. It just doesn’t feel natural.

But as they move upstream, it begins to feel more like the way February had felt in the Sangre de Cristos. The streams are frozen solid and the beaver are deep in sluggish winter sleep. There’s little point in breaking through the ice to set traps they aren’t likely to investigate.

Gerald’s team turns downstream, moving rapidly now. They reach the rendezvous point at the river fork half a day ahead of Young’s party. Jones seems quiet enough when he rides into camp behind Young, but his eyes narrow when he sees Gregorio. It’s clear the man’s attitude hasn’t changed.

The group trapping the west fork has gathered about a third more pelts than Gerald’s party. Ewing Young shrugs. “You just never can tell,” he says.

“Mollie’s got other things t’ do,” Enoch Jones smirks. He crouches beside the fire and pokes at it with a stick. “Ain’t figured out yet not to use green firewood, either.” He grins maliciously at Gregorio, who’s on the other side of the fire, stirring the stew for the evening meal. “’Fraid t’ go inta the woods to collect dry fuel, little boy?”

Just then, Ignacio enters the clearing, his arms full of broken aspen branches. He drops them onto the ground beside Jones, then begins cracking the smaller pieces over his knees and tossing them into the flames. Sparks shoot up and Jones jerks back. “Watch what yer doin’!” he growls.

Thomas Smith laughs. “Too bright fer ya, Jones?” he asks. He turns to Gerald. “How far’d that fork go, anyways? Does it really head as far as the San Francisco?”

“Nigger mollie lover!” Jones spits. He glares at Smith, stands, and stalks into the woods. Gerald focuses on Smith. As he begins describing the terrain near the head of the Black’s northeast fork, Smith, LeDuc, and Young all lean forward attentively.

~ ~ ~ ~

The trappers move down river the next day, back toward the Gila. Since they’re travelling through an area they’ve already trapped, there are no pelts to process, and little to do once they’ve made camp. Young has slowed the pace and they make camp before nightfall each day, giving the men time and daylight to mend traps and take a breather.

And to clean up a little. On the third afternoon from the fork, Gerald slips through the brush to bathe in a side stream. He’s returning along a narrow deer trail, half-bent to avoid the crowding willow branches, when he hears a guttural man’s voice in the small clearing just ahead.

He slips closer and peers through the bushes. It’s Jones, growling deep in his throat as he shoves Gregorio Garcia, chest first, his arms twisted behind his back, into the rough bark of a wind-battered ponderosa. As Gerald watches, Jones grabs Gregorio’s hair and grinds his face into the thick bark.

Then Jones releases the boy’s head. He grips Gregorio’s arms with his right hand and fumbles at his crotch with his left. “I’ll show you how it’s done, Miz Mollie boy!” he growls. His cock springs free of his clothes, and he grabs Gregorio’s cotton trousers, and gives them a yank. The back seam gives way with a ripping sound and exposes the boy’s bare buttocks. “I’ll teach you t’ be a man!”

Gerald moves then, and the sound of dry sticks breaking underfoot catches Jones’ attention. As the big man’s head swivels, Gregorio twists free. His right hand sweeps to his waist. Gerald glances at him in surprise, and Jones’ head swings back to the tree.

There’s a ten-inch long knife blade in Gregorio’s fist. It glitters in the sunlight as his knees bend slightly, balancing his weight. Jones’ eyes narrow as Gregorio’s arm swings up and out.

The knife slashes into Jones’ right shoulder, but he doesn’t flinch. “Little bastard!” he grunts. “I’ll teach ya a lesson you won’t forget!” He grabs Gregorio’s wrist with his right hand and twists the knife from Gregorio’s grasp as he reaches for his own blade.

Gregorio shrinks against the ponderosa, his eyes wide with fear and Gerald steps free of the bushes at the edge of the clearing. He pulls his maple-handled knife from his belt as he moves across it.

Jones, focused on Gregorio, seems to have forgotten anyone else exists. He chuckles as his bone-handled knife moves to Gregorio’s throat, then lifts a small piece of the boy’s cotton shirt with the blade’s tip. Jones grins maliciously. “I think I’ll just start here and work my way down,” he says. “Give ya somethin’ to think about before I get to where I’m goin’.” He glances down at himself, still uncovered and bone-hard. “We got time.”

“Time to reconsider,” Gerald says to Jones’ back.

Jones glances around in surprise. “Oh. Ya wanta share?” he asks with a lascivious grin.

“Let him go.”

Jones releases Gregorio’s shirt. “You wanta play too?” He snorts as he adjusts his trousers to cover his crotch. “I can take on both of ya and whup ya solid!”

Gerald glances at Gregorio. The boy pulls at his clothes, trying to straighten them. “You all right?” he asks.

As Gregorio nods, Jones lunges. Gerald’s head snaps toward him and his hand lifts, his big steel blade steady. They edge around each other, watching for an opening, as Gregorio clutches at his clothes.

For a big man, Jones is surprisingly agile. But Gerald, slimmer and younger, is still quicker on his feet. They dance around each other for an endless ten minutes, sizing each other up. Jones’ eyes become mere slits as he realizes the man facing him isn’t going to be cowed.

Suddenly, the big man darts in, slashing past Gerald’s blade, but Gerald slips sideways and away. As Jones turns to follow, Gerald makes his move, reaching in to slice Jones’ left wrist and force him to release the bone-handled knife.

Jones staggers back and drops his weapon. He steps sideways, but the grass has become compressed and slick from the men’s maneuvering and his feet slip out from under him. As he drops to the ground, he leans forward and grabs the dropped knife with his right hand.

“Just let it go,” Gerald pants, stepping back. “Leave him alone and we’ll call it quits.”

“You ain’t bested me yet, ya molly-lovin’ nigger bastard,” Jones snarls. He presses his left hand against his side, trying to staunch the blood from his wrist. “I ain’t through with you.”

“Enough blood’s been shed,” Gerald says. He glances toward Gregorio, who still stands frozen by the big ponderosa. “Go on,” he tells him.

Jones scowls. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere and neither are you.” He staggers to his feet. “I ain’t through with either of ya!” He lunges on the last word and his blade slices Gerald’s right forearm as Gerald dances away.

Then they close again, but Jones is awkward now, wielding the bone-handled knife right-handed. Even his feet seem to behave differently.

But Gerald is also weakening. He reverses his grip on the maple handle, holding it waist level, the steel blade broadside against Jones’ weapon. As Jones moves forward to take advantage of this adjustment, his feet slip again on the crushed grass. His weapon drops to the ground as he lurches chest-first toward Gerald and his upraised knife.

As Jones tilts toward him, Gerald jerks his knife up and away from the man’s belly. The steel slices upward and twists sideways. As Jones sinks onto the mashed-down grass, Gerald’s blade sinks sickeningly between the ribs into this big man’s right side.

They’re both on their knees now. Gerald, still clutching the maple-handled knife, has been carried forward and down by the force of Jones’ fall. He catches himself and leans backward, releasing his grip on the knife.

“Nigger bastard!” Jones growls. He wrenches himself up and back on his heels, glares into Gerald’s face, then grabs the hilt of the knife with his bloody left hand. He grits his teeth and yanks the blade free. Blood gushes from the wound, but he barely glances at it. He tosses Gerald’s knife toward him contemptuously. “That the best you can do?”

Gerald opens his mouth, but Jones clearly isn’t looking for an answer. Instead, he scrabbles in the grass for his knife and staggers to his feet. He points the big blade at Gerald, then Gregorio. It wavers slightly and he tightens his grip and presses his right hand against his bleeding chest. His eyes are icy-blue slits of fury.

“I ain’t done with you yet,” he growls. “You follow me an’ yer a dead man, ya mollie bastards.” Then he turns wildly away and crashes through the brush toward the riverbank, moving upstream.

Gregorio stares at Gerald. “He is—.” He takes a deep breath and puts a hand on the ponderosa’s thick bark, steadying himself. “You killed—”

“That may be,” Gerald agrees. He pushes himself to his feet. “It’s hard to say just how badly he’s hurt.” He looks toward the trail that Jones has left in the undergrowth and suppresses the sudden bile in his throat.

He feels drained, all the tension gone out of him. He tries to stiffen his resolve. Will Jones return? If he does, his anger toward the boy will be ten-fold. Curiously, Gerald feels no anxiety for himself. He stands, breathing in the knowledge that he’s knifed a man, perhaps killed him, feeling again the sensation of the knife sliding almost softly between Jones’ ribs. He feels curiously detached. It’s quite a different sensation from shooting at fleeing Indians. He looks down. There’s blood on his knife and his hands.

“You’re hurt,” Gregorio says.

Gerald lifts his right arm and looks at the cut in surprise. He’d forgotten it was there. Now that he’s remembered it, he can feel the pain stinging along its length. He wipes at it with his left hand. “It’s only a scratch,” he says. “Smith’ll fix me up nicely.” He glances down at the boy’s torn cotton trousers. “Can you twist those together enough to keep them up until we get back to camp? We need to tell the Captain what’s happened.”

Gregorio pulls at his trousers, trying to make himself presentable, and looks at Gerald anxiously. “But not everything,” he says.

Gerald turns away, toward the path to camp. “I don’t think we need to go into particulars,” Gerald agrees.

And he’s right. In fact, he’s a little startled at the lack of surprise when he announces that Jones has fled upriver with a wound in his chest. They all seem to have a pretty good idea of what’s occurred in the woods. Smith silently bandages Gerald’s arm and Young doles out a small dose of whisky.

Gerald explains three times that Jones may be fatally wounded before Ewing Young details a group to search for him. Smith, LeDuc, and Pattie head reluctantly into the brush while the others wait out the next three days, desultorily repairing traps and other gear, and speaking of anything but the events in the clearing.

When the three men return, they report that they followed Jones up and then across the river, across the dry hills, and through a break in the canyon walls. Then the tracks disappeared. Although there’s little cover in the rock-and-sand terrain above the canyon, they didn’t spot Jones or see any sign of a body.

“Probably holed up somewhere to die,” Thomas Smith says with a shrug. He nods at Gerald. “Serves the bastard right.”

Ewing Young frowns. Regardless of the man’s character, Young is still responsible for him and it irks him to not know for certain what’s happened to him.

“That’s some knife arm you got there,” James Pattie says to Gerald. He shakes his head and glances at Gregorio. “It must of felt good to finally shut that man’s mouth.”

“We’re gonna hafta give him more opportunities with the Injuns,” Smith jokes.

Gerald smiles thinly and looks away. He’s cleaned his knife blade a good half-dozen times, but it and his hands still feel unclean. He wonders what his father would think about the use he’s put the knife to.

He studies his fellow trappers. Only Young seems concerned that they haven’t located Jones or know what’s happened to him. Is this the way of these men? Are their trapping partners as expendable as the natives? Their attitude sheds a new light on their lack of interest in his own status. Is it possible that they don’t care about the color of his skin simply because they don’t care about him? He stirs uneasily.

 “Griz’ll get him,” George Yount suggests.

“Too tough t’ eat,” Thomas Smith snorts.

Gerald grins in spite of himself. Too poisonous to eat, is more like it. And yet—. He shakes his head. Jones is an insatiable bastard, but he’s still a human being. It doesn’t seem right to leave him or his dead body alone in the wilderness. And Gerald’s hands still shake slightly when he remembers the way the man’s chest gave under his knife blade, the gush of hot blood. His stomach twists and he flattens his hands against the piece of cottonwood log he’s sitting on, pressing them down on the soft gray wood. He gazes into the fire.

Inexplicably, his thoughts turn to Suzanna Peabody. What would she think about the trappers’ indifference to Jones’ fate? And how will she feel when she learns Gerald has killed him? Will she think his actions were justified? Not that she’ll ever know the worst of what Jones did, the reason for the fight in the first place. Not from Gerald’s lips.

And Gregorio won’t tell her. Even these hard-boiled trappers are unlikely to speak of such things in the Peabody’s parlor. She’s safe from the worst of it. She’ll only know about the man’s attempt to force a kiss from herself. And that certainly won’t justify a knife fight. Or a death.

Gerald shrinks away from the thought of those black eyes directed angrily at him and resolutely turns his mind to the hunting of beaver. They’ll be back on the Gila soon, and moving down it toward the Sonora’s Red River, what the Mexicans calls the Colorado. That’s where Ewing Young believes they’ll do most of what he calls their ‘real business’—trapping the furry banknotes that will recoup the expedition’s expenses and make some money besides.

Young seems to have put Jones’s almost-certain death behind him. Gerald wishes he could do so that easily. Maybe trapping will help. It’s an exhausting business, but he was relieved to get back to work after the Papago fight, and it’ll be a relief to get back to work yet again. This time, Jones and his crudities won’t be shadowing the campfire. Though the big dirty-blond man shadows Gerald’s dreams now in a way he never did before the altercation in the clearing.

Yet, if Jones is truly dead, he won’t be in Taos again, shadowing Suzanna Peabody’s footsteps. The thought produces a guilty lightness in Gerald’s chest. He shakes his head. It’s a strange mix of emotions. A sense of relief beside a deep guilt at feeling relieved. And guilt that he stabbed the man. Surely there was another way to deal with Jones’ animosity toward Gregorio and himself. Though Gerald can’t think what he could have done differently.

Gregorio himself has grown quiet and avoids Gerald’s eyes when he distributes the food at mealtimes. Is he also suffering from guilt? Or shame that he wasn’t able to handle Jones on his own? Gerald shakes his head and lifts himself off the old cottonwood log. They’ll be moving out tomorrow, and he needs to reorganize his possibles sack.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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