NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 7

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 7

The day after the visit to the Peabody’s, Gerald shares yet another whisky with Old Bill in yet another Taos taberna. In the middle of a story about his life among the Osage Indians, Williams interrupts himself. “So how is it you happened to already know our Miz Peabody?” he asks abruptly.

Gerald shrugs. “A man was paying her what seemed to be unwanted attention and I intervened.” He lifts his drink. “Anyone else would’ve done the same thing.”

Old Bill lifts a scraggly red eyebrow. “Would the gentleman who was providing this unwanted attention happen to be named Enoch Jones?”

Gerald sets his drink on the table. “Do you know him?”

Williams’ back straightens and his eyes narrow. “I know him all right. I’ll wring his fat neck for him, the mothersuckin’ balls for brains bastard!”

Gerald frowns. “Has he been after her before this?”

“He’s made eyes,” Old Bill says grimly. “You sure it was him?”

“Oh yes. We were in the same train coming out.”

“He’ll be waitin’ for you t’ turn your back, you know.”

“He already disliked me.” Gerald shrugs. “This will just give him another reason.”

Williams raises an inquiring eyebrow and Gerald briefly describes the incident with the Kiowa boy, then—more fully—Jones’ treatment of the mules.

“He’s a godforsaken bastard, that one,” Old Bill says. “I’ve known a few craven-hearted men in my time, but he’s one of the worst.” His eyes snap. “To think he’d have the gall to put his hands on our Suzanna.”

“It was the way he spoke to her,” Gerald says. “As if she was dirt under his feet.”

“Well, he’s got this mothersuckin’ idea that a white skin makes him better than the rest of the human race,” Williams says. “And Miz Peabody being part Navajo but so well bred and nice mannered must just stick in his craw.”

“She’s part Navajo?”

“Now there’s a story for you.” Old Bill leans forward and lowers his voice. “No one talks about it much, because Jeremiah doesn’t like to be reminded how he was boondoggled.” He tilts his red head. “At least, that’s how he figgers it.” He shrugs. “Any other man would of known what the girl was up to, but he was still green and those New Englanders, they expect everybody else to have their same standards.”

Gerald frowns, confused.

Williams stretches back, fingering his whisky. “See, what happened was, Peabody showed up out here from the East along about 1809. He was still pretty much just a whippersnapper, runnin’ away from some trouble with a gal and another man.” Williams shrugs. “The usual. Anyway, he got out here safe enough and managed to sweet talk the ricos into letting him stay, but then this puta started after him. She was the daughter of a French trapper and a Navajo gal the trapper had bought from the Comanches.”

Williams grins ruefully. “The girl was a righteously pretty little thing and she pretty much got what she wanted. Jeremiah fell in love, or so he thought, and when she told him she was enciento, he hooked up with her. Didn’t marry her, though. He wouldn’t turn Catholic, even for a girl. But he swore he’d take care of her and the child. And he did, even when she started running around with other men.”

Old Bill shakes his head. “Should of turned her out. I would of. But by that time, the little girl was born and they say she was a righteous beauty even then. Her daddy fell in love for real then, that’s for certain sure.”

Williams pauses, looking incongruously bemused. “Babies’ll do that t’ a man if you’re not careful. Tie you down faster’n any woman can.” He shakes a finger at Gerald. “My advice is, don’t stay around long enough to find out if there’s gonna be a kid, and if you do find out, then cut out before the coon actually arrives. If you stay, you’re lost, sure as oil and water don’t mix.”

Gerald grins. “I’ll remember that.”

Williams raises both hands, leans forward, and slaps the rough wooden table with both palms. “So what’re you gonna do with yourself this winter? You decide yet?”

Gerald shakes his head.

“Why don’t you throw in with me?” the trapper asks. “I’ve got nothing to do here except play court to Sibley on his road commission work and I ain’t much good at payin’ court.” He snorts. “Sibley’d tell you that.” He leans back, hands still flat on the table. “I’ll show you the ropes and we’ll split the results. Just you and me, private like. I’m not about to share my hunting grounds with just anyone.”

“Your hunting grounds?”

Old Bill winks. “I know some places up in the hills that they all think are trapped out. But it’s good hunting if you know where to look and there ain’t too many out looking.”

Gerald studies the opinionated mountain man. There’s something about Williams that’s quite appealing. Or maybe it’s just that Old Bill’s loquaciousness means Gerald doesn’t have to talk much when they’re together. There’s certainly little need to explain himself or where he comes from.

Gerald nods thoughtfully, then more firmly, looking into the trapper’s face. “I’d be honored to throw in with you,” he says. “When do you expect to start?”

“Well, there ain’t no time like the present!” Williams scrapes back his chair. “Let’s get a move on.”

Gerald follows him out the taberna door, squelching his desire to make a farewell visit to the Peabody home, aware that he has no right to make such a call, hoping against hope that he might chance across Suzanna before he and Old Bill leave town. Or that Williams will decide he needs one last meal of the Peabody cook’s wheat flour rolls.

But when the old trapper decides to do something, he throws himself into it completely. He and Gerald are busy from dawn to dusk: stocking up on flour, coffee, and salt; purchasing Gerald’s gear, including elk hide moccasins and buckskin trousers and shirt; and locating and bargaining for two sturdy mules for their gear. Gerald keeps an eye out for Suzanna Peabody, but doesn’t catch so much as a glimpse of her in the next three days.

They slip out of Taos in the middle of the night. Williams has mentioned casually to several of the other trappers that he’s heading up the Rio del Norte, and he and Gerald move out in that direction under a star-studded sky.

The next morning, the wheat fields of Taos Valley give way to rolling hills covered with forty-foot juniper and occasional long-needled thick-barked ponderosa pine. But Old Bill is paralleling the Rio del Norte, not heading toward it. He moves due north, then slightly east, to hit what he calls Red River Creek well east of its confluence with the del Norte. They camp beside the creek that night, in the shadow of the mountains it flows from. According to Williams, the stream is called “Colorado” in Spanish, in honor of the reddish sediment that stains it during spring runoff.

The next morning they follow the Red’s narrow canyon east into the Sangre de Cristos. Williams leads the way, the gap between the men too far for any real conversation and Old Bill anxious not to be spotted. Gerald’s not sure if Williams is more concerned about Indians or other trappers.

He takes the opportunity to study the massive granite and sandstone boulders that jut from the canyon walls, dwarfing the men and mules, and the ponderosas that cling precariously in the gaps between them. There’s a brooding beauty in the darkness of the pines. Sunlight breaks around the rocks onto the clear-running river below, then cuts off abruptly as the canyon rim narrows overhead.

Where the canyon is wider, broad grassy areas stretch beside the stream. Even Gerald can spot the old beaver sign in these meadows. Graying tree stumps stick up from the grasses and show themselves among the alder and willows along the river bank. Their tops, gnawed long ago into dull points by beaver incisors, are chipped like poorly sharpened pencils.

The men find no truly marshy areas or ponds with active beaver lodges until well into the second day. Williams is ahead and Gerald’s beginning to wonder when he’ll decide to noon, when the older man raises his reedy voice. “Well now, that’s a beaver dam if ever I saw one!”

A windblown snag straddles the river from bank to bank. Ten- and twelve-foot lengths of two-inch thick branches are jammed hard against the snag at every possible angle. River mud has been smudged between them, whether by beaver or water flow, it’s hard to say.

The dam is massive, perhaps eight feet tall and fifteen long. Grasses dot its top and sides. They’re well rooted in the sediment and enhance the dam’s strength. Water slips around its near end, trickling downstream just enough to keep the pond behind it in check. There are no discernible banks to the pond itself. The impounded water seeps through a swath of cattails, then into a tangle of coyote willow. Beyond the willows, long grasses rise from mucky soil, creating a bog that blocks the canyon floor for a good quarter mile upriver.

Williams pushes his hat back on his head and scratches his scraggly red beard as he studies the dam and the pond. Then he turns to Gerald.

“This is where moccasins are better’n boots,” he says. “We’re about to get damp.” Old Bill’s mule nickers at him and he looks at her impatiently. “Ah hell, let’s noon first.” He pulls off his hat. “Then we’ll start slogging.”

They loose the mules to graze among the water-rich grasses, and munch buffalo jerky while they study the bog. “We could trap it from here,” Williams says. “If we’re careful, the beaver won’t know which direction we come from.” He snorts. “There’s sure enough water around here to wash our stink out.” He glances up at the sheer canyon walls. “But we’d only have one way out if any Utes or Apaches show up.” He clucks his tongue as he shakes his head. “We’re gonna have to get past this. Come at it from upstream.”

“And if Apaches or Utes show up when we’re above this?” Gerald asks. “Won’t this mess block us from moving out of here quickly?”

Williams grins mischievously. “Then we’ll have to head upstream instead.” He glances at Gerald’s feet. “Better put your moccasins on. Those leather boots will take a month of Sundays to dry out good and proper.”

Gerald grimaces. He suspects the elk hide moccasins aren’t going to be much protection against the icy water.

And he’s right. When he steps into the stream, the shock to his feet is truly breathtaking.

Ahead of him, leading a reluctant mule through the water-logged grass, Old Bill looks back over his shoulder and grins. “They’ll numb up soon enough,” he says. “Then you won’t feel a thing.”

Gerald grins wryly and clucks at his mule, who seems more interested in eating than wading. Smart animal, he thinks grimly.

They move upstream and well beyond the pond before Williams finds a camping site to his liking. The next morning, he gathers gear enough for a day’s trapping, hands Gerald a long piece of deadwood sharpened on one end, hoists a pack onto his back, and leads the way back to the beaver dam.

They maneuver downstream perhaps a mile, though it seems longer. Gerald’s feet are blocks of ice before the trapper abruptly halts. “Here it is!” Williams hisses. “Looks different, this direction.”

Gerald wades through the water to stand beside Williams in the eddying stream. A wall of willow lines the river’s banks, marking the edge of the beaver pond. On their left, there’s a narrow muddy incline between the willows. Neatly-clipped willow sticks lie beside it. A small bush has been sheared off to within a foot of the ground, the tip of each stub angled and sharp.

“Beaver feeding?” Gerald asks.

Williams hisses, “Quiet!” Then he nods and jerks a thumb toward the strip of mud. “That there’s their slide,” he whispers. “We’ll be settin’ the trap out from that, a good three feet or so.” He points at a small section of water that’s noticeably darker than the rest, a sign that the pond bottom drops sharply in that location. “Right about there.”

Gerald considers the dark spot and wonders just how deep the pool actually is. But he only nods.

Old Bill wades forward cautiously. He stops, extends his foot, and taps it along the bottom of the pond, then grunts approvingly. He turns and beckons to Gerald. “Come and see.”

Gerald edges closer, staying between Williams and the bank.

Williams moves his foot from side to side. The water swirls, turning brown with silt. “I’m using my foot to move some of this here mud into a little hill,” he explains. “When I’m done, the top of it’ll be about a foot below the surface.”

Gerald nods his understanding, if not his ability to see what the trapper is actually doing.

“I’ve got to make it wide enough to hold the trap and all,” Williams explains, gesturing with his hands, forgetting to whisper. He yanks the bag on his back around to rest against his scrawny belly, then pulls out a trap and begins unwrapping the steel chain that’s wound around it. “You know how to set this beast?”

“Well, I do on solid ground,” Gerald says.

Williams grins. “It ain’t so theoretical now, is it?” He lifts the trap chain to one side, out of the way, then flips the trap itself onto its side and braces it against his thigh. He wraps his hands around the metal clamps at each end and squeezes steadily, forcing them together. As the springs compress, the trap jaws are forced open and into position.

Old Bill gives Gerald a little nod and jerks his chin at the trap. “Just flip that trigger piece into that there dog.”

Gerald gingerly uses his free hand to snap the dangling piece of narrow, angled metal into the notch on the opposite side of the trap. This will keep the trap’s jaws open until an unwary animal ventures too close and bumps the trigger and the metal jaws clamp shut around the animal’s leg or other body part.

Williams lifts the trap carefully, gives a satisfied nod, and grins at Gerald. “That’s the way to do it.”

Gerald grins back at him. “That approach requires some real strength.”

Williams nods complacently. “It’s all in the hands.” He deftly slides the trap under the water and onto the pile of dredged-up mud, then lifts the chain and moves farther into the pond. When he finds the anchorage spot he’s looking for, he motions Gerald to bring him the trap stake.

Gerald wades across and hands Williams the piece of sharpened deadwood, and the trapper slips its blunt end into the final loop of the chain. Then he pulls a leather cord from a pocket, wraps it around the stick twice, then threads it through a loop of the chain, and knots it into place just below the top of the stake. Once the chain is attached, he grabs the stick with both hands and shoves the pointed end firmly downward, driving it into the pond floor. He nods in satisfaction and turns to follow the chain back to the trap site. Gerald wades after him.

“Cold yet?” Old Bill asks over his shoulder.

“Startin’ to feel it,” Gerald says, his lips so stiff he can hardly form the words.

Williams chuckles. “You got sand, I’ll say that for you.” He gestures toward the stake. “All that’s the preliminaries. This next step’s the crucial piece.” He wades to the willow bushes along the bank, pulls out his knife, and slices off a long switch. He scrapes the bark from one end, then reaches into a pocket. “I’m gonna need you to take care of this,” he says. He holds out the corked piece of antelope horn that serves as his bait container.

Gerald has smelled castoreum before, but the choking scent of it is always a shock to his senses. He grimaces as he removes the cork and tilts the contents toward the trapper. Williams grins at him, sticks his gloved forefinger into the goop, and smears it onto the scraped end of the willow switch.

As Gerald recaps the bit of horn, Williams chuckles. “Look at your face!” He shakes his head. “Better get use to it, sonny. That stuff’s what fortunes are made of.”

“It stinks like a lot of necessary things,” Gerald says dryly.

Old Bill laughs and moves to the edge of the pond. He forces the thicker end of the willow stick into the bank at an angle, so that the baited end hangs out over the water and dangles perhaps six inches above the surface and the set trap underneath.

“That should do it,” Williams says. He turns and begins wading upstream. “We need to make tracks up a ways before we can climb out. We don’t want that beaver smellin’ us. These critters can be mighty intelligent when they take a notion to be.”

There’s a good-sized male beaver in the trap when they return the next morning. Gerald carries it back to camp, where Williams proceeds to demonstrate how to skin and butcher the carcass, then how to stretch the skin onto a hoop he constructs from willow branches and thin strips of rawhide. When he hangs the hooped pelt from a ponderosa branch, the sun shines through the skin and gives it a reddish hue.

“You ever eat beaver flesh?” the trapper asks.

Gerald shakes his head.

“Well, you’re in for a treat,” Old Bill says. “Beaver tastes like beef and even has a little fat in it, unlike venison or antelope. They’re so dry you’ve got to add fat to the pot to make them righteously edible.” He squats next to the fire and reaches for the coffee pot. “With all that grease, beaver flesh doesn’t last long, but it’s good the first day, at any rate. And it’s a nice change from deer or elk or those other hoofed creatures.”

“I understand beaver tail is quite tasty.”

Williams grunts disparagingly. “If you’re craving fat, it’ll pass for it,” he says. “It’s too bland for my tongue. Though that cook of Jeremiah Peabody’s knows what to do with it. Someone brought her some last fall and by the time she was done with it, Peabody said it was like ambrosia.” He shakes his head. “That Chonita is a looker, too. It’s beyond my understanding why she’s not married yet. Waiting for the best proposition, I suppose. A female like her can take her time, be righteously choosy.”

Williams pauses, still holding the coffee pot, staring up into the golden narrow leaf cottonwoods between them and the river. “I knew another one like that once. An Osage gal.” He shakes his head and puts the pot back on the stone next to the fire. “Pretty, too.” He looks at Gerald. “Have you met her?”

“Jeremiah Peabody’s cook?” Gerald shakes his head.

Williams grins mischievously. “Well, you met his daughter, so nobody else matters much now, I reckon.”

Gerald looks away. Suzanna Peabody’s name isn’t something to be bandied about around a campfire.

“Ah, come on now,” the trapper says. “It’s not a thing to be ashamed of, that spark between you. And you can’t deny it was there. I saw it.”

Gerald glances at him, then rises. “I’m to bed,” he says.

Old Bill chuckles knowingly and reaches for the coffee pot again. Gerald’s face tightens. Is the man taking liberties because of the color of his skin, or is he just taking liberties? How dare he talk about Suzanna Peabody in that way! He has no right!

Gerald pulls himself together and spreads out his blankets. He has no rights either. No permission to think of the girl with such a combination of sweetness and longing. And no reason to think he’ll ever have such permission. She may smile that way at every new man she meets. She certainly must meet plenty of them in her father’s parlor. He seems to keep open house.

Despite these obvious facts, Suzanna Peabody’s dark eyes still sparkle in Gerald’s memory as he lays down, covers himself, and tries to force his mind elsewhere, away from the look on her face in that first unguarded moment in her father’s small Taos parlor.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

“So how is it that you knew Gerald Locke Jr. yesterday, even though you had not been formally introduced?” Jeremiah Peabody asks Suzanna the next morning as he cuts into his egg-and-corn-tortilla breakfast.

Suzanna reaches for another tortilla. “You know, Encarnación’s tortillas are so delicious, I’m sure our visitors wouldn’t mind having them for tea instead of wheat rolls.”

“The cost of wheat flour may be high, but it means a great deal to these men to have a semblance of home in the shape of wheat bread, tea, and a pretty woman to serve them,” her father says. “And, as you say, Encarnación’s corn tortillas are well made, so it’s no sacrifice to eat them at our other meals. That young woman is quite a cook. I thank the day she appeared at our doorstop.” He looks up at her with a slight frown. “Unless you have grown weary of tortillas, my dear. In which case—”

“Oh no,” Suzanna says. “I could eat Chonita’s tortillas at every meal and never weary of them.” She pops the last bit into her mouth and lifts her cup of milk. “That and this good cow’s milk that Ramón so thoughtfully brings us.”

“Well, we do pay him for it, although Ramón has also been a great friend to us. Although I have reason to believe that we are no longer the primary attraction for him.” He smiles. “He seems to think Encarnación’s acquaintance is worth cultivating.” Then his eyes narrow. “However, if you think you are going to deflect me from my purpose, you are very sadly mistaken. How is it you know this Gerald Locke?”

Suzanna chuckles as she places the milk back on the table. “I couldn’t help but try,” she says. She looks at her plate. “I— I didn’t want to worry you.”

His head lifts sharply. “Should I have not invited him in? Shall I forbid his return?”

“Oh no!” She looks up in alarm. “He’s a good man who saved me from a very uncomfortable encounter. I was glad to meet him properly.”

“An uncomfortable encounter?” Jeremiah’s hands fall away from his plate and flatten on the edge of the table. “I think you had best start at the beginning.”

His knuckles have whitened by the time Suzanna finishes her story and his compressed lips are one thin angry line. “That Enoch Jones is a man who cannot rise above his station and so resents anyone who looks as if they might do so,” he says angrily. “Or anyone who has already surpassed him.” He takes a deep breath, picks up his knife and fork, and gives Suzanna a sharp look before reapplying himself to his food. “And Gerald Locke Jr. has clearly done so.”

She smiles at him radiantly. “I’m so glad you like him, papá.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So, it’s ‘papá’ now, is it?” He smiles and shakes his head. Then his face sobers. “But please be more careful as you traverse the town, my dear. There may not always be a Mr. Locke nearby to save you from men like Enoch Jones.”

Suzanna sobers. “I know it. I’ve thought about my route that day, and decided on a new path for getting safely to and from the plaza.” Her chin lifts. “But I have no intention of allowing the likes of Enoch Jones to keep me from enjoying my life.”

Her father chuckles, tosses his napkin onto the table, and pushes back his chair. “I have no doubt that is the case,” he says. “Not even I am likely to stop you from achieving your wishes. Are you prepared for your Latin lesson this morning?”

“Of course,” Suzanna says. “But before we begin, I need to check on the courtyard plants. I put straw on the greens last night, to protect them from the frost, and they need to be uncovered.”

“Has the frost reached the courtyard?”

“I thought that it might, so I was worried about the lettuce. I want to keep it going as long as I can. There’s enough for at least another salad or two.”

“And did you find a way to protect your seed potatoes until spring?”

Suzanna’s eyes brighten. “I placed them under the straw, as well. This afternoon I’ll find a dry space for them in the root cellar. It may be difficult to keep those tiny eyes from growing too long before it’s time to plant them.”

Jeremiah smiles at her. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

But her plants aren’t enough to keep Suzanna Peabody from thinking about Gerald Locke at odd times over the next few days. The way he looked into her face, didn’t let his gaze drift lower. The shy but somehow confident smile. The broad forehead above his gray eyes. The tone of his voice as he spoke to her father: low-timbered, respectful, self assured. There’s something about the way the man carries himself, a kind of firm gentleness.

She wonders what he’ll decide to do during the coming trapping season. There are groups going up to the Platte River country. At least that’s what their leaders are telling the government officials. They’re claiming that they’ll head north to trap outside Mexico’s boundaries. But word is they intend to sneak back across the border, then move south, all the way to the Gila’s rich beaver country. Somehow, she doesn’t think Mr. Locke would misrepresent his intentions in that way. He just doesn’t seem the kind of man who would intentionally deceive others.

He seemed interested in her potato project, Suzanna reflects as she picks pieces of straw from between the leaves of loose-leaf lettuce. He had leaned toward her a little, his gray eyes on her face as she explained how she planned to overwinter the pieces Carlos Beaubien gave her. She smiles a little to herself as she reenters the house, thinking again of that broad forehead, that kind-looking mouth. She doesn’t pause to think that she knows virtually nothing about him.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5

But there’s still the matter of how he’ll spend his winter, whether he’ll plunge into the world of fur trapping or try to find some other way to earn his keep. He’s thinking about Ewing Young’s offer as he wanders Taos plaza two days later, with one eye out for the tall girl in American clothing. He idly contemplates a blanket covered with fat pumpkins, then glances up and sees Ewing Young striding diagonally across the plaza. A tall thin buckskin-clad man with long red hair in disheveled braids stalks beside him. The man gestures wildly and his nasal high-pitched voice echoes off the adobe buildings.

When Young sees Gerald, a relieved look crosses his long face. He slows as he reaches Gerald, although his companion is still talking.

“And he’s workin’ on a new-fangled trap that might hold some promise, if—” the man is saying.

Young puts his hand on the red-haired man’s arm. “Here’s someone you’ll be interested in knowing,” he says. “Gerald Locke Jr., meet Old Bill Williams. He came in yesterday with that bunch that’s surveying the Santa Fe Trail.”

There’d been talk around the campfire the night before about the Santa Fe Trail Survey team the U.S. Congress has sent out under Major Sibley, but Gerald had assumed they’d all be in uniform. He looks at the buckskin-clad man in surprise.

Williams snorts. “Expecting a little more dudin’ up?”

“I thought the survey was an army project,” Gerald says.

Williams shrugs. “They had to have an expert in the country to guide ’em.”

“You’ll find that Old Bill here isn’t shy about his talents,” Young says drily. “Fortunately, he usually manages to keep to subjects he’s got some knowledge of.”

Williams snorts. “Know more’n you about trapping!” he says. “And Injuns!”

“So you say.” Young’s eyes crinkle with amusement. He turns to Gerald. “Williams here has lived a lot of years in Indian country and thinks he knows all about it. Fact is, he’s so damn confident that he goes out trapping on his own in places where the rest of us hunt in groups in case of Indian attacks.”

Williams grunts. “I don’t plan on gettin’ sent to the other side any time soon, not ’til I feel like takin’ a few with me.”

Young grins and shakes his head. Then he glances toward the mercantile behind Gerald. “I need to go in and talk to Baillio.” He nods to Old Bill, then Gerald. “I expect we’ll be meetin’ again.”

Gerald and Williams watch Young duck through the store’s heavy wooden door frame, then stand in the dusty plaza and consider the vendors and the goods spread in front of them. Williams glances up at the turquoise sky, but Gerald’s eyes stray across the plaza, still watching for the tall girl with the American hairstyle.

“So,” Williams says abruptly. “You new to nuevo mexico?”

“I came in with Young’s most recent trade caravan.” Gerald brings his eyes back to the older man’s face. He’s probably about forty. Older than most of the Americans Gerald’s met here so far.

“You lookin’ to trap?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Gerald looks around the plaza. Still no sign of the girl. He looks at the red-haired man. “I’m still trying to sort out my options.”

“Well, that sounds like a mighty tall order.” Old Bill jabs a thumb in the direction of the nearest taberna. “Like Ewing says, I know about trappin’ and a few other things besides. If you’re lookin’ for advice about the lay of the land, I can share some pearls of wisdom for the price of a tangle foot.”

“Tangle foot?”

“A drink. Taos Lightnin’. Whisky.”

Gerald chuckles. “It’s a deal.”

They’re a long while in the bar and Gerald buys more than one drink, but he does learn a good deal: which of the Americans has the most experience trapping, who buys the resulting furs and at what prices, which groups are forming for the coming season. What Williams says accords with and expands on what Gerald’s already picked up from the campfire talk, so he’s inclined to believe this scrawny man with the long red braids.

Williams holds his liquor well, too. Three whiskeys in short succession have no impact on his speech or the brightness of his brown eyes. The only change Gerald can detect is that the mountain man’s sentences become longer and more complex, his diction more precise.

“And now that I’ve told you the sum and total of all my most profound knowledge about the art and technique of beaver trapping, let us proceed to more essential information,” Williams says. “Where is it you hail from, young man?”

“Missouri,” Gerald says. “I—”

“Ah, Missouri,” Old Bill says. He leans back. “I also consider myself to be of Missouri, though my natal state is North Carolina, of all the benighted places to be born. But when I was seven years old, my paterfamilias hightailed it for greener pastures and I’ve always been grateful for his sense of adventure. We landed far enough away from St. Louie to keep the stench of its sinful ways from my mother’s nostrils but close enough to take advantage of the fur market when we needed cash money.” He takes another sip of whiskey. “I was just a young whippersnapper when my daddy showed me how to set my first trap line and it sure did give me a taste of what it is to be independent. Then when I was sixteen I took me a notion to go live with the Osages and Christianize them.” He shrugs and grins. “That was most righteously green of me. In the end, they taught me more than I ever taught them, that’s for damn certain.”

Abruptly, the mountain man pushes away from the table. “Well, that was a mighty fine respite, that was, and we’ve had ourselves a healthy palaver, but I think maybe we could do with a feed and I know where to get it. Have you had the pleasure of meeting Jeremiah Peabody yet?”

Gerald shakes his head.

“Come along with me and I’ll introduce you. He’s always got a feed going. The man’s got a good cook and has the righteous sense to keep her busy.”

Gerald nods. He’ll finally learn where Peabody’s is. A restaurant of some kind, apparently. But by the time they’re halfway across the village, the loquacious trapper has set him straight on that, too.

According to Williams, Peabody is a New England man who came into the country around ’09 and set himself up as a teacher and scribe so the Spaniards would let him stay in the country legally. He holds open house for the trappers when they’re in town, as long as they aren’t liquored up when they arrive.

Gerald smiles slightly at this, thinking of the amount of whisky Williams consumed at the taberna, but holds his tongue. The man doesn’t appear to be drunk. Perhaps that will suffice.

And it does. The house is built in a U-shape. A gated adobe wall blocks the open end, but the wooden gate stands invitingly open. As Gerald follows Williams into the plant-filled courtyard beyond, a tall thin man with a black chin beard comes out of a short wooden door set into the adobe wall to their left. A Mexican man chops wood in the far corner.

“Well, Mr. Williams!” the man with the beard says. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir!” He gives Gerald a questioning glance.

“Jeremiah Peabody, you old scholar, you!” Williams says. “How are you?” He jerks a thumb at Gerald. “This here’s a young man I think you might wanta know, name of Gerald Locke the younger. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, according to Ewing. More importantly, he’s got the good sense to listen to my pearls of wisdom.”

Jeremiah Peabody chuckles and gives Gerald an amused glance. “That would imply that he has excellent manners and the patience of Job.”

“He might even have the patience to listen to you!” Old Bill laughs.

“And if I know you, William, you have neglected to eat since you rose this morning, although you have probably imbibed at least a drink or two.” Peabody turns back toward the house, waving them after him. “Come in, come in!”

Williams and Gerald follow him past a well, two small garden beds, and the man chopping wood. They duck through the door and move past a kitchen area, then down a short hall.

Jeremiah Peabody waves them into a fire-lit room crowded with tall bookcases and men sitting on carved wooden benches and cushion-topped chests. A narrow-shouldered blonde man and a slim dark-haired girl face each other in the center of the room.

The girl’s back is to the door. As Gerald enters, she says “Oh! Thank you, monsieur!” and the young man glances at the door and sees Jeremiah Peabody. His face flushes guiltily. There’s a general chuckle from the other men in the room as the girl turns, smiling, toward the door, a cloth covered package in her hands.

“Well, Mr. Bill Williams!” she says. “Hello!” Then her eyes touch Gerald’s face and her black eyes widen. Her smile deepens. “Hello,” she says.

Jeremiah Peabody looks puzzled. “Have you met Mr. Locke already, my dear?”

She shakes her head, eyes glinting with amusement. “Not formally, no.”

Peabody turns to Gerald. “My daughter, Suzanna.” Then, to Suzanna. “Mr. Gerald Locke Jr., newly arrived.” He glances at Gerald. “With Ewing Young’s train, I believe?”

Gerald nods, but his eyes are on the girl. “It’s my pleasure,” Gerald says.

She bobs a curtsey, her hands still full, eyes on his.

“And what is it you have there, my dear?” her father asks.

Suzanna lifts a corner of the cloth. “Look what Monsieur Beaubien brought me!”

Jeremiah Peabody frowns at the thin young man with the sharp nose who stands facing him, looking doubtful.

Peabody’s black eyes narrow and his gaze sweeps the room. “I know girls here marry at an early age,” he says, his tone clipped. “But my daughter is too young for gifts from eligible men.”

Beaubien shakes his head, spreading his hands. “They are merely the potatoes of Ireland,” he says in a polished French accent. “And most inedible, I assure you. I meant nothing by them.”

Jeremiah turns to Suzanna, his eyebrows raised. “Potatoes?”

Suzanna nods, eyes shining. “Mr. Young’s cook was going to throw them out, but Monsieur Beaubien thought I might be able to get them to grow here.” She unties one corner of the cloth. “Look, they already have eyes starting to form.” She lifts her chin at her father, her eyes just slightly defiant. “It’s a fair trade. I’ll give him some of my first crop.”

“Though she’s promised not to cook them herself,” Beaubien says mischievously. “I’ll let someone else have that honor.”

Jeremiah shakes his head and permits himself a small smile. “Very well. We’ll consider it a commercial transaction and leave it at that.”

Suzanna smiles triumphantly and carries her treasure out of the room. Old Bill crosses to the fireplace and turns, warming his long buckskin-clad legs. “Like you got a choice, Jeremiah,” he chuckles. “Who’s gonna tell that girl she can’t do what she’s already decided on doin’?”

“Must take after her daddy or somethin’,” a big broad-faced young man observes from the adobe seat that forms the sill of the multi-paned window overlooking the street. The panes are made of milk-white sheets of mica and the resulting muted light gives the room a sleepy, church-like glow that’s balanced by the color of the cushions on the chests and the light of the fire.

Jeremiah grins ruefully and crosses to the tea table in the right-hand corner. “Did you all get enough to eat?” he asks. “I’m sure you will be wanting something, William.” He lifts a small china plate. “What’s the news from Sibley’s survey expedition?” Then he turns. “I apologize, Mr. Locke. Have you met Carlos Beaubien and Ceran St. Vrain? And of course you know Ewing Young here in the corner, guarding the table for us.”

Young lifts a hand in acknowledgement, and Gerald nods to him and then the other men. They nod politely, then go on with their talk. Gerald drops into a chair near the door and tries not to watch it for the girl’s return. The way her eyes widened in apparent delight at the sight of him, the way she looked directly into his face. She’s unlike any girl he’s ever encountered.

When she returns, she has a book in her hand. The conversation stops when she enters and the men all watch her cross the room to Ceran St. Vrain in the window seat. She hands him the small brown volume. He takes it, looks at the spine, and shakes his head. Suzanna laughs as he hands it back to her. “You can face Apaches and Mouache Utes, but Samuel Johnson is too much for you?” she teases.

“You can face Samuel Johnson, but a skillet and oven are too much for you?” he answers.

Williams barks with laughter as Charles Beaubien chortles, “He caught you out that time!” But the girl only chuckles, crosses to a bookcase, and inserts the book in a row of similarly-bound volumes.

“We all have our strengths and weaknesses,” Jeremiah Peabody says, smiling. “While she serves the food we eat, her training is in literature and horticulture, not cookery.”

Suzanna tilts her head, gives him a small smile, and crosses to the table. “Shall I ask Encarnación for more tea and rolls?” she asks. She swings around, looking at the men in the room. “I suspect Mr. Williams and Mr. Locke have not partaken as much as they might like to.” She smiles mischievously at Old Bill. “You, of course, are always hungry for more of Encarnación’s rolls.” She turns to Gerald. “And you? Are you still hungry?”

Then she looks at his hands, empty in his lap. “Why, you haven’t eaten at all, have you?” She picks up a small plate, places two rolls, a piece of soft white cheese, and a napkin on it, and crosses the room to him. “That tea water is cold. I’ll bring more in a minute, along with some fresh bread.”

As Gerald takes the plate, he looks up into her eyes. Again, the straightforward quality of her gaze strikes him. There is nothing flirtatious in this girl. Yet he can barely move his lips to acknowledge her attention. “Thank you,” is all he can manage to say.

~ ~ ~ ~

Gerald sits beside the campfire that night long after the others have gone to their bedrolls, and gazes thoughtfully into the flames. Other than Enoch Jones, everyone he’s met in the West has made no reference to the color of his skin. It’s almost as if they can’t see that he’s a shade darker than the most sun-burnt of any of the Americans or Frenchmen here. He chews thoughtfully on his lower lip. That might not be true. A few of the French trappers, exposed for decades to the elements, are darker than he is. And, of course, the natives. Although some of them have both Spanish and Indian parents, so they’re also of mixed race.

For example, the girl Suzanna appears to be the daughter of Peabody and an Indian woman. Or perhaps half-Indian? There’s something about her, a creaminess to her coloring, that sets her apart. His mind strays, thinking about her height, the way she bears herself so confidently in her strangely old-fashioned American clothes. The way her eyes look straight into his—

Then he shakes himself and goes back to the original question. The question of his own parentage, whether he should be more upfront about his race. Even though he’s already settled the issue for the time being, he finds it rising again. Perhaps because of the girl? He pushes the thought away and considers. No one seems at all interested in his background. Although Jeremiah Peabody might be, if Suzanna takes a liking to him.

Gerald catches himself. The girl clearly has many admirers. It isn’t just her father’s table that brings the trappers and merchants to his parlor, men of standing and resources like Ewing Young. Even if Gerald’s parentage isn’t an issue, what chance does a poor man have against men of substance like Young or someone with the experience and way with words of Old Bill? He’d need a good deal more money than he currently has to even begin thinking of speaking to a young woman like that. A girl who reads Johnson but can’t cook. It would require a house with room for books. And a cook.

Gerald shakes his head. It will doubtless be a long while before he’s in a position to offer such a thing. She’ll have found someone else by then. Someone who can give her all she’s worthy of, long before he can even think of approaching her. Besides, he’d have to tell her about his father, about his race.

He stands, stretches, and heads to his bedroll. He knows it’s foolish to think of her, but the last image across his mind as he drifts into sleep is Suzanna Peabody’s face, her eyes widening with surprise and something akin to delight. It hasn’t even occurred to him that he knows virtually nothing about her.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 4

Ewing Young appears at the Taos campsite three days later and pays off his men. It’s heading toward late October now, the cottonwoods gold along the stream banks, the temperatures cold at night but still warm during the daylight hours. Most of the teamsters leave the next morning. They hope to sign on with a Santa Fe train that will head east to Missouri before winter sets in. A small group remains behind in the pasture. Most of them plan to either winter in Taos or join a beaver trapping group and overwinter in the mountains.

Gerald isn’t sure how he wants to proceed. He’d like to see his father again and have a real conversation with him, but he can’t figure out how to do this without rousing suspicion. Jones is still in the Don Fernando de Taos area, though Gerald isn’t sure where. The matted-haired man sloped off with a lewd reference to Mexican señoritas as soon as he’d collected his pay. His going certainly makes Ewing Young’s meadow more comfortable and, since Young has told the men to stay as long as they need to, Gerald sees no reason to leave just yet, despite the chill nights.

Young comes by late one evening and sits talking with the remaining men, his big frame bending toward the fire as he warms his hands. When the last of Gerald’s companions has slipped off to their bedrolls, Young turns to him. “You lookin’ to trap?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Gerald says. “I’d hoped to find work clerking, but I haven’t really started searching yet.”

“Still gettin’ your bearings?”

Gerald smiles slightly. “I suppose you could call it that.”

Young rises from the dead log he’s been sitting on. “I’m puttin’ together a band and headin’ out late next month. If you want to learn, you’re welcome to tag along. It might be a good way to earn the money for that farm of yours.” He grins. “If that’s what you’re still thinkin’ of doing. New Mexico has a way of turning a man’s mind in new directions.”

Gerald looks at him noncommittally and Young studies him. “I’m assuming you’ve got the wherewithal for the gear,” he says. “Traps are runnin’ ten dollars apiece and you’d need at least six, plus food and sundries. You’d be free trappin’, which means everything you bring in would be yours, but everything you put into it will be at risk, as well.”

“The investment resources aren’t a problem,” Gerald says, looking up at the big man. “And I appreciate the offer.” He shrugs and smiles. “I just may take you up on it.”

“I can sweeten the offer by assurin’ you that Enoch Jones won’t be comin’ with me,” Young says. “He made noises, but I’ve had just about all of him I can take for one year.” He stretches his hands over the flames. “Well, you know where t’ find me. We’ve got another week or so before headin’ out. I’m either at the store, my house, or Peabody’s place.” He turns away from the fire. “I’ll see you around.”

Gerald nods to the empty night and turns thoughtfully back to the flames. He picks up a stick and pokes at the fire, separating the pieces of burning wood so the flames will die out faster. He knows where Young’s mercantile is, and his house is on the other end of the pasture. But in the little time Gerald’s spent wandering the village, he’s seen no sign that identifies Peabody’s store.

He chuckles. But then, signs aren’t a major part of Don Fernando de Taos’ streetscapes. It’s an interesting place: half American, half Mexican, with a good dose of Taos Pueblo added in. The buildings are all brown one-story adobe mud that glint with flecks of mica in certain lights. In fact, in certain lights, the hamlet’s downright pretty.

And the people are pretty much live and let live, from what he can see. Best of all, he blends among them in a way he never has before, his skin simply another shade of the prevalent brown. In fact, he feels so comfortable here, he hates to leave.

But his money won’t last forever. He has only a few more weeks in which to decide what to do with himself. He hasn’t seen any need in the shops for another clerk. And Ewing Young is right. He doesn’t have the resources to set himself up as a farmer. Although if he did, he knows where he’d want to do so. If that’s possible so high in the mountains. On land surely already owned by someone. He pushes the thought of the long and fertile mountain valley out of his mind and douses the fire. Trapping seems like the best option so far.

~ ~ ~ ~

Gerald heads to the Taos plaza the next day for supplies, thinking again about how to approach his father in Ranchos. He’d truly like to get some advice about the idea of free trapping, not to mention passing as white.

He’s still accustomed to walking with a prairie-eating stride and he passes several groups of blanket-swathed Taos Indians who are also heading toward the plaza. He nods politely each time, but notices that their eyes tend to veer away from him. Even as they nod back at him, they don’t look directly into his face.

He frowns irritably, then remembers the slaves in Missouri. They did the same thing, carefully avoiding eye contact. Is it the sign of an oppressed people? Or simply politeness, not wanting to challenge or be challenged? It must be difficult to continue here in this land, with first the Spanish and now the Americans crowding in, encroaching on what was once only theirs.

Gerald reaches the plaza and slows to saunter past the cloths laid out on the ground and the produce and other goods carefully arranged on them. He finds he isn’t as interested in any of it as he probably ought to be, and veers off the plaza onto a street lined with adobe walls and the houses behind them.

All this vast land, yet the houses are so close together. There’s safety in that, of course. Although there are also plenty of shadowed corners for activity that might be suspicious in the full light of day. For example, this man facing the corner made by those two walls, his arms up and blocking the young woman who’s crowded into the niche, her back to the light brown adobe.

Gerald frowns. The man’s back is to him, but the matted white-blond hair under the dirty hat looks familiar. Jones? Then the man speaks, low and threatening, and there’s no doubt. Gerald stops in his tracks.

The girl speaks, in surprisingly good English, her voice sharp and clear. “I apologize if you have misunderstood me, Mr. Jones,” she says firmly. “I have no interest in keeping company with you.”

Jones reaches for her arm. “You think yer somethin’,” he growls. “But yer just another Mexican slut.”

“How dare you!” She twists, trying to get away, but Jones reaches for her shoulder and forces her back, against the adobe.

Then Gerald is behind him, fingers clamping Jones’ upper arm. “Let her go!”

Jones, startled, turns his head. “You!” His grip on the girl loosens involuntarily. She slips out of his grasp and darts down the dirt street. She looks back as she reaches the corner, dark eyes wide, and nods her thanks to Gerald, then is gone before he’s had time to do more than glimpse a light brown face and black hair neatly pulled up in an old-fashioned American hairstyle, soft tendrils framing her cheeks.

Gerald turns back to Jones and tightens his grip. “She clearly doesn’t want your attentions.”

Jones jerks his arm away and Gerald lets him go. “It’s none o’ yer business,” Jones growls. “’Sides, she’s just a Mexican. Just like yer just a nigger.”

Gerald’s eyes narrow. “She’s still a woman,” he says. “To be treated with respect.”

“Respect ain’t what they want.” Jones grins lasciviously. “They want tamin’.”

“It certainly didn’t sound that way to me.”

Jones shoves past Gerald into the narrow street. “You just stay out of my way.”

Gerald watches him go, then looks again toward the corner where the girl disappeared. She’s taller than the other women he’s seen in Taos. Her clothes are different, too. More American style, with an old-fashioned high waist and straight skirt that reminds him of the dresses his mother used to wear. Her skirts are longer than those of the other Mexican girls. He’d caught only a glimpse of ankle, instead of the half calf so common here. And her hair was tucked up. Off her neck, not down her back. A long, narrow back. A truly beautiful tawny-brown neck.

Impulsively, he moves down the street after her. But rounding the corner only reveals more adobe walls and a little boy playing in the dirt. The girl spoke perfect English too, although with a slight Spanish lift. A very pleasant lilt. Who is she?

Perhaps his father will know. It’s yet another question to ask him, apart from whether it’s wise for Gerald to continue to try to pass as white and what he would advise Gerald to do for a living, now that he’s here.

But when Gerald arrives at the Ranchos de Taos smithy early the next day, he finds that both the smithy and the casita beside it are empty. A middle-aged Mexican woman is pulling water from a well in the center of the compound. She looks at him inquiringly. He gestures toward the smithy and raises his eyebrows in a questioning look.

She smiles in amusement, shakes her head, and carries her water bucket through a doorway at the end of the compound.

A minute later, an American man comes out. He scratches at his scraggly blond beard and scowls at Gerald. “You wantin’ the smith?” he asks. “He took off. Said he was goin’ trappin’. Paid me my month’s due an’ hightailed it.” He peers into Gerald’s face. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about blacksmithin’, would you?”

Gerald shakes his head. “Did he say where he was going?”

The man waves a hand toward the mountains to the north. “Rockies, I guess. I dunno. He’s left me in a helluva bind.” His face brightens a little. “You needin’ traps? I’ve still got a half dozen he made before he took off.”

Gerald shakes his head again, then pauses. Maybe trapping would be the best way. “I’m not sure,” he says. “But if I do, I’ll come back for them.”

“Don’t know if they’ll be here by then.” The man scratches at his beard again. “They’re likely to go fast, once word gets out that Smith’s gone. He’s the best damn blacksmith we’ve seen in these parts for a while now.”

Gerald grins. “Then you should get a good price,” he says, turning away. “I apologize for waking you so early.”

“You come on back now, if you need anything,” the man says.

Gerald lifts a hand in farewell. “I’ll do that.”

He heads back to Don Fernando de Taos. His father has answered at least one of his questions. He’s left the area, leaving Gerald free to continue to pass as white. Gerald isn’t sure how he feels about this. Although most people don’t seem to care about his ancestry, clearly those who do care, care deeply. At least, Enoch Jones seems to.

And is it the right thing to do? Is it fair to others to not tell them up front? His jaw tightens. Why should it matter what color his skin is? He’s just a man, like any other man. The same hopes and desires, the same needs.

He stops in the middle of the path back to Taos and gazes up at the golden cottonwoods, the intense blue of the sky above them. It’s not like he set out to pass. In fact, he hasn’t actually told anyone he’s white. He’s just let them assume it. For that matter, he hasn’t denied his race to Jones. Although he hasn’t confirmed it, either.

But living on an equal footing with other men these past weeks has felt good. Gerald chuckles. ‘Good’ is such an inadequate word to describe the expansion he’s felt, the way he seems taller, somehow. He’s always known that he’s equal to any other man. Certainly, his parents made that clear enough to him.

Gerald grins, thinking of his Irish mother’s blazing blue eyes as she snapped, “You just be who you are inside and that’ll be good enough for anybody who has any sense, whether your mother’s a mere bondservant or your father a free negro.” He lifts two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. Yes ma’am. Then he sobers. But to be treated as equal is another thing entirely. It makes a man’s shoulders a little straighter, somehow.

He continues walking, his hands in his pockets. Maybe he’ll just continue on as he is and see what comes of it. Why cause trouble when it isn’t asking to be caused? Why not enjoy the experience and see where it takes him?

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

As they move closer to Taos, Gerald begins to ponder just how best to go about locating his father. The pack mules move steadily through the ponderosa forest, then turn and follow a small green valley to the canyon of the Rio Fernando, a river that seems like a mere creek by Missouri standards. By late morning the next day, the men and mules move out of the juniper at the mouth of the canyon and gaze at the sweep of the Taos Valley. It’s so broad it hardly seems like a valley, the mountains on the western edge a dim blue in the distance.

“That there’s the Taos Gorge,” Charlie says, ahead of him.

Gerald nods. It’s a gash in the earth that cuts the valley in two along its length.

“Doesn’t look like much from here,” the Scout says. “You oughta see it from the south. It’s somethin’ else agin.”

Gerald nods politely, his gaze moving to the objects nearer at hand, the town of Don Fernando de Taos. Though to call Taos a town seems rather pretentious. Flat-roofed mud houses cluster along narrow dirt streets that straggle out from a central square, or plaza. The town’s a hamlet, really, although the walls around the square look substantial enough. As the train draws closer, Gerald sees that the plaza walls are actually the back side of long low adobe buildings, all facing inward in a protective stance. The early afternoon sunlight reflects bits of mica in their walls. There are perhaps eight or nine buildings in all. Surely it won’t be difficult to find his father in a community this small.

The problem is how to go about asking for him. To need the services of a blacksmith is common enough, even if one doesn’t own a mount. The blade of a knife might be loose, a belt buckle might need to be mended. But looking specifically for a black-skinned smith whose last name is Locke is bound to raise questions. Why would a white man be looking for a black man with the same last name?

And there’s no guarantee that his father is actually in Taos itself. Gerald’s already discovered from the campfire talk that when someone says “Taos” they can mean one of a number of different locations: the village of Don Fernando de Taos, the Taos Indian pueblo north of the village, or the widespread Taos valley and one of the many hamlets it contains. So, while knowing his father is in Taos keeps him from having to search the entire Rocky Mountain region, it doesn’t narrow down his location as much as Gerald would like.

Well, he’s closer to his father here than he was in Missouri. That’s something. The question is whether to drop this attempt to pass as a white man and acknowledge their relationship. He isn’t sure how his father, ever the practical one and yet a man who treasures his son, will feel about that. Hopefully, they’ll have an opportunity to discuss the situation in private.

But while Gerald is still trying to decide how to go about his search, Charlie announces that he has business to take care of and needs help to accomplish it.

The men from the mule train are still together and camped on the northern edge of Don Fernando de Taos on land controlled by Ewing Young. No one wants to move on until Young shows up to pay them. Besides, he’s still providing the rations. But none of the men have been doing much to earn their keep, so when Charlie appears at the campfire two nights after they arrive, he isn’t in an asking mood.

“I need some of ya to head south to Ranchos with me tomorrow, first light,” he says abruptly. “We got a passel of animals that need their shoes looked after an’ the only smith Young trusts is in Ranchos.”

“Nothin’ in Ranchos I wanna see,” Enoch Jones says. “’Sides, it’s too far, with this ankle.”

“It’s three miles,” Charlie says dryly. “Yer ankle was well enough this mornin’, chasin’ the girls on the plaza like ya were.”

“Gonna cost you,” Jones says.

“None of ya’s been exactly pullin’ yer weight the last few days.”

Jones gestures toward Gerald, on the other side of the fire. “Green hand can go. It’s his fault I’m tied up.”

Charlie looks at Gerald, who nods agreement, then swings back to Jones. “I ken’t promise you extra,” he says. “That’s up t’ Young. But I’m sure he’d look kindly on a little help.”

Jones grunts and nods unwillingly. “When?”

“First light.” Charlie turns away and nods at two other men who are sitting at the far edge of the fire. “You, too.” They nod back, and he turns and disappears into the night.

“Gotta go visit his señora,” Jones says derisively. He pulls out his bone-handled knife, reaches for a flat stone, spits on it, and begins to draw the blade across the stone, honing the steel.

Gerald glances up and speaks in spite of himself. “He’s married to a Spanish girl?”

Jones snorts derisively. “Keepin’ her. Gotta turn Catholic t’ marry one of these gals.” He examines the knife’s blade, slips it back into the beaded sheath at his waist, then pulls out a flask and takes a swig. “But you don’t have t’ get religion anyways. These putas are all easy enough to come by.”

Gerald stares into the dying flames. Jones seems to make a habit of quick judgments. Not that the characters of the girls here really matter. Gerald’s more interested in land than women, though he doesn’t have the funds for either of them. His thoughts turn to the mountain valley with its black soil and long grasses, its tiny sparkling streams, running even in the fall. From what he’s seen of this land so far, that much water in the landscape, the thickness of those grasses, is unusual.

The men are up at first light, preparing to move out, the animals balky with sleep. They see no reason to move any further than Ewing Young’s grassy meadow.

The fall nights and early mornings here are cooler than Gerald is used to. He shivers a little as he waits for the others. The two mules he’s responsible for crowd him a little, as if they too are chilled. The mule with the missing shoe pushes its nose against Gerald’s shoulder and the jenny with the two loose nails shakes her hoof impatiently.

Gerald gives her a reassuring pat and looks over her shoulder. Enoch Jones seems to be adjusting a halter strap on his far mule. Gerald’s animals block his view somewhat, but he can see that Jones’ mules seem agitated.

Then the nearer one pulls back sharply, ears flat against his head. Gerald catches a glimpse of a sharp object in Jones’ hand as his fingers slap up and against the far mule’s lip. The mule’s right hoof comes forward and catches Jones in the left leg, knocking him off balance, and Jones lets out a howl of protest.

Gerald’s own mules stir anxiously and he speaks softly to them as Charlie materializes from the gray dawn.

“What’s goin’ on?” Charlie demands.

Jones gets to his feet. The object that had been in his hand is nowhere in sight. “Damn mule kicked me,” he says.

Charlie looks at Jones’ leg, then the mule, which stands, panting slightly, its ears still back. “If yer leg ain’t broke, keep usin’ it,” Charlie says. He turns away. “We need to get goin’.” He moves toward Gerald. “You ready, Locke?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Glad someone’s got some sense,” he mutters, just loud enough for Gerald to hear, as he passes him on the way back to his own animals. “Here we go!” he says over his shoulder as he snaps his lead rope. “Let’s get ’er done!”

The mules are slowed by missing shoes and loose nails, and it takes a full hour to reach Ranchos, but Gerald doesn’t mind the leisurely pace. As the sun rises behind the eastern mountains, the landscape begins to glow with light. The adobe walls of the houses are soft in the light. Then their flecks of mica begin to spark as the sun strengthens and fingers its way across the flat plain to the west and the mountains bulking beyond.

Gerald is craning his neck to see more when the view is abruptly blocked by a row of rangy narrow leaf cottonwoods strung out along a small stream and the men and mules reach the blacksmith’s shop. It’s not much of a shop. Just a ramshackle structure at one end of a barren compound of small adobe buildings. Thick posts support a loosely-spaced layer of thin, unpeeled poles. Sunlight filters through the gaps and dapples the dirt floor. A waist-high chimneyless adobe hearth stands in the center of the space, a small leather bellows on the ground beside it.

The coals on the hearth are cold and no one stirs in the compound. Gerald and the others hold the mules while Charlie knocks on the door of the nearest hut. He speaks to the man who opens it, then comes back to the mules. “It’ll be a minute,” he says. He gestures to the men behind Gerald. “Those ken wait a bit. He’s gonna hafta get a fire goin’ before he ken shape the shoes. Jest take ’em to the corral in the back.” He turns to Gerald. “We’ll get the loose nails done first.”

Gerald nods and leads his animals around the building, then returns to the smithy with the jenny with the loose nails. The blacksmith has come out of his hut now and is building a fire on the smithy hearth as he and Charlie talk.

“We got us a pretty good set o’ men this time,” Charlie’s saying as Gerald approaches the shed. “No Mexicans this time, though. All white men.”

As Gerald steps into the shed, the smith’s head swings toward him and his hand, reaching for another handful of coal, freezes. Then he recovers himself and continues feeding the fire.

Gerald’s a little slower. Joy surges through him and his face breaks into a broad smile. Then he realizes what he’s done and flattens his face. But Enoch Jones, standing in the corner has seen both reactions, and his pale blue eyes narrow with suspicion.

“No mulattos this time?” the smith says to Charlie with a small grin. “You didn’t want another Jim Beckworth in your crowd?”

Charlie grins. “Ah, old Jim’s well enough. Ya jest ken’t expect to believe anything he says.”

The smith chuckles and turns to insert his bellows into a small hole halfway down the side of the hearth and give it a light pump. He glances over his shoulder. “No green hands this time?”

In the corner, Jones snorts derisively. Charlie grins and jerks his head toward Gerald. “Well, we’re still trying to figure out what Locke here is. He says he don’t know anything but he keeps provin’ himself wrong.” He grins at Gerald and nods toward the smith. “This here’s Jerry Smith.” Gerald and the smith nod politely at each other, Jones watching them with narrowed eyes. “And you know Enoch Jones, I think,” Charlie continues. “He’s been around a while.”

The smith nods to Jones. “I think I did some work for you last spring,” he says politely. “Reset the blade of that big knife of yours.”

Jones shrugs. “Could be.”

Smith looks at Gerald. “You plannin’ on stayin’ for a while?”

“I hope to,” Gerald says. “If I can find a way to make a living.”

“He’s got the brains to be a trapper,” Charlie says.

Smith chuckles and shakes his head. He picks up a small bucket and pours more coals onto the fire, then pushes down on the bellows handle again. “Beggin’ your pardon, but I’m not sure how many brains that takes,” he says dryly.

Charlie laughs as the black man gathers up his hammer, files, and shoe nails and heads for the mule tethered outside. “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” the smith says.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

The train trundles uneventfully southwest after that. They’re on the Cimarron Cut Off, so the only real issue is lack of water, a lack that gives Gerald a new appreciation for the wide and steady flow of the Missouri River. And the taste of fresh water, which they don’t experience until they reach the springs near a rocky outcropping unimaginatively called Point of Rocks.

From here, the Sangre de Cristo mountains break blue across the western horizon. Men and animals are travel weary and dusty, but Young doesn’t give them more than a day to rest and clean up. He begins almost immediately to divide the horses and mules into two groups: those who’ll tolerate a pack and those who won’t.

The second morning finds the one who will being fitted with loads of merchandise to be carried over the mountains to Don Fernando de Taos. The other, smaller group will tow the remaining merchandise in the now half-empty wagons to Santa Fe, where the Mexican government officials will levy a tariff on the goods. Apparently there’s no such tariff levied in Taos and this division of goods is common practice. Certainly, the teamsters seem to consider it routine.

“I guess you’ll be wantin’ to head straight to Taos,” Young says to Gerald as they watch the packs being loaded. “Since you’ve got business there.”

“I do, if you don’t need me with the wagons,” Gerald answers.

Young nods. “I’ll meet you and the others there and pay you all off,” he says. “You can find me at my store or at Peabody’s.”

Gerald nods. “That’ll be fine,” he says. “Where—”

A scuffle breaks out just then between two horses and a teamster, and Young heads toward them, leaving Gerald with his question unasked. He shrugs. He’ll learn soon enough how to find his way around Taos, locate Young’s mercantile, or this Peabody’s place of business.

He moves out with the pack train the next morning. They head due west, the animals strung together with ropes in long groups of ten, a man at the head of each group and one halfway back. Charlie is master now and he tells Gerald to settle in beside the middle of the second string, the one led by Enoch Jones.

The scout steers the mule train toward a gap in the hills. As they move west, the grass thickens. The late summer rains have greened the landscape nicely. Yellow sunflowers brighten the ground wherever there’s a bit of an indentation to hold the moisture. Gerald looks at them approvingly.

The next day, the grassy slopes begin to tilt upward and the sunflowers shrink in size and number. Juniper bushes scatter the landscape and fill the warm afternoon with a sharp urine smell. Farther up, there’s a type of tree Gerald’s never seen before: a kind of resinous pine, its trunk gnarled as if it’s been wind blasted for at least a hundred years.

The route moves uphill, along the side of a rocky slope, and the path narrows. Gerald focuses on his work. There’s not room for both man and mule, and he drops into the trees below the path to give the animals room to maneuver. Dirt and small rocks break under his feet and dribble down the slope to the gully below. He has to work to stay in line with his string.

Then the trail ahead becomes little more than a rocky outcropping. Gerald’s string of mules comes to a halt as the animals ahead of them edge cautiously across the ledge. The mules bunch together on the narrow path and snuffle at each other as if commiserating on their lot. Gerald scrambles up the bank to them, then farther up the slope to get out of their way but be within reach if they need him.

At the sound of rocks skittering down the bank, Enoch Jones turns and glares. “No time t’ be explorin’,” he growls.

“There’s not room on the path for both man and beast,” Gerald points out. The dirt moves under his feet and he clutches at a juniper branch for support. “I’ll be down as soon as we start moving again.”

Jones scowls and yanks on his lead mule’s chin strap, forcing the animal’s muzzle toward him. The mule pulls its head back, baring its teeth, and Jones whips the free end of the lead rope across its nose. The animal snorts angrily and jerks away, but this puts its hooves off the trail, scrambling in the dirt and rocks. The pack on its back tilts precariously.

Jones is pulled forward by the mule’s weight. Just as his feet hit the edge of the trail, the mule lurches backward down the slope, wrenching the rope from Jones’ hands. He drops to the ground and his right foot twists awkwardly under his left leg. “Whoa, damn you!” he yells.

But it’s too late. As the lead mule slides down the bank, the animals linked to it are pulled inexorably toward the edge of the trail. They brace themselves, their eyes rolling.

Gerald slips gingerly down the bank, trying to move as smoothly as possible to keep from knocking gravel onto the trail and frightening the animals even more.

“Whoa, now,” he says soothingly. “Whoa now.”

The mule nearest him turns its head, its eyes wild with fright. Gerald stretches to touch the mule’s neck, then moves cautiously to its head. He grabs the animal’s halter and peers over its shoulder and down the hillside. “Whoa now,” he says again.

Fortunately, the lead mule has found its footing. It stands, huffing irritably, on a small flat space below, its pack still intact but tilted to one side. The four mules strung behind it are stranded in an uneven row between it and the trail above. They scuffle rocky dirt anxiously as they try to find secure footing. They look more puzzled than frightened.

Gerald pats the mule he’s standing next to soothingly and moves past it, grateful that it and the four still behind it stalled when they did.

He looks at Jones, who’s still on the ground, his hands on his twisted ankle. “No harm done,” Gerald says.

Just then, Charlie appears on the trail ahead. “Ya’ll all right back there?” he calls. As he gets closer, Jones pushes himself upright, his right foot carefully lifted from the ground, his face twisted in fury.

“You give me green help, this is what happens,” Jones jabs a thumb toward Gerald. “He was too busy wandering uphill to keep ’em in line.” He puts his foot on the ground and winces. “An’ now I can’t walk.”

Charlie gives Jones a long look, then turns to Gerald. “On slopes like this, it’s best if ya stay below ’em, when ya ken,” he says. “Or directly behind. They get nervous when there’s somethin’ on the hillside above. Think yer a catamount or somethin’.”

Gerald nods. There’s no point in pointing out that Jones triggered this particular nervousness.

The scout moves to the edge of the path and peers down. “Looks like nothin’s lost.” He turns to consider Jones’ foot, then Gerald. “Think ya ken lead ’em up? Jones is gonna need to favor that foot a mite.”

Gerald nods and maneuvers around the other men to find a way down the hillside to the lead mule. As he passes, Jones mutters, “Damn green hand!” and Charlie answers evenly, “A man ken’t do what he ain’t been told, now ken he?”

Once all of the string is back on the path, Gerald and Charlie straighten the lead mule’s pack and tighten it down again, then Charlie returns to his own string and Gerald keeps the mule steady until it’s their turn to make their way across the outcropping.

Jones limps behind, alternately cursing damn mules and green hands. He soon falls behind the entire mule train, so Gerald doesn’t have to listen to him for long. But Jones is still fuming when he limps into camp that night, well after everyone else.

“Coulda been killed,” he growls, tossing aside the stick he’s been using as a crutch. He sinks onto a large piece of sandstone and begins loosening his bootlaces. “There’s Apaches out there, ya know.”

“There was nothin’ for ya t’ ride,” Charlie says mildly from across the fire. “And we weren’t that far ahead.”

Jones grunts and reaches down to pull off his boot, but the angle is wrong and he wrenches the swollen ankle out of position. “Hell!” he yelps.

“Want some help with that?” Gerald asks, moving toward him.

“Stay away from me!” Jones snarls.

“You know, Jones, if you’d been a little easier on that mule, she wouldn’t of jumped,” says the man who’d been leading the set of mules directly behind Jones and Gerald’s string. He glances at Jones, then Charlie, then the fire. “Looked to me like she was pretty calm ’til you slapped her muzzle with that rope.”

Charlie looks first at Jones, then Gerald. Jones glares at the man on the other side of the flames, who ignores him, but Gerald returns Charlie’s gaze steadily.

“You don’t know nothin’,” Jones growls. He glares at Charlie. “I got stuck with a idiot mule and a damn green hand. What’d ya expect?” The scout doesn’t respond and Jones turns his scowl on Gerald. “You green hands come out here and think ya know everything there is t’ know, an’ ya don’t know shit!” He moves his foot impatiently, then flinches and reaches for his swollen ankle.

“If ya wrap that up good and tight, it’ll help bring that swellin’ down,” Charlie says. “We ken redistribute goods in the morning and set up somethin’ fer ya to ride on fer tomorrow, at least.”

Jones nods sullenly. “In the meantime, someone could bring me some food,” he grumbles and Charlie nods to the other stringer, who rises quietly to make the arrangements.

Early the next day, with Jones riding at the head of the mule train, Charlie and his men drop into the south end of a valley thick with ripe grass. A small sparkling stream winds its way through the valley floor, heading north through more grassland. Mountains glimmer at the valley’s head, a good ten miles away. The bank of the little creek below has broken off in places, exposing a soil so black and fertile that Gerald’s fingers itch to run through it. Now this is land a man could raise a crop on.

He looks up at the almost-black fir-covered mountains in front of them, then northwest to taller, stonier peaks, the largest a massive, curved wall of rock. They’ve been climbing the last two days. The growing season here would be short, and the winters strong.

But still— Gerald looks down at the thick grass on the valley floor. Cattle would do well here. If a man built them adequate shelter, they could feed all through the cold season on hay harvested from these rich bottom lands.

But he has no money for land and the outlay needed to raise cattle or anything else. And this is Indian country. It’s an impossible dream. Even so, as the mule train moves into the trees on the other side of the valley, toward what Charlie says is Apache Pass, Gerald finds himself glancing back toward the bright trickle of water running steadily north.

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.

That Free Chapter….

If you wondered what I was up to when I posted the first chapter of my novel Not Just Any Man last Sunday, I apologize. I scheduled the post intending to write an explanation before it went live, and then got waylaid by a recalcitrant spine. I had no idea a herniated lumbar disk could be so energy-sapping.

But now the meds are kicking in and I’m able to actually sit long enough to create this post and explain what I’m doing.

The reason I posted the first chapter of Not Just Any Man is that I intend to keep on posting additional chapters until the entire novel is available FREE at LorettaMilesTollefson.com/Not-Just-Any-Man-index. This is because I’ve decided to turn my focus to readership rather than sales.

If you want to buy the book, I’m not going to complain, of course. But I will be delighted if you decide to help spread the word that Not Just Any Man is available free at LorettaMilesTollefson.com.

My plan right now is to post a chapter a week. There are forty chapters, plus the Author’s Note and the list and short bios of historical characters. As my back pain subsides and I can spend more time at the computer, I hope to post twice a week. We’ll see. At the moment, my spine is telling me I need to go lie down.

P.S. Before I do that, I’m currently scheduling these to go live on Sunday mornings. Is this a good day of the week to do this? Is there a better one? When I go to twice a week, which days would be optimum? I welcome any input!

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

When Gerald tops the low rise and sees the mule-drawn wagons strung out along a rutted track across the prairie, it takes him a moment to adjust. After five days walking westward, he is still absorbing the healing beauty of the wind bending the grass, the bulk of buffalo in the distance. The sweep of the land has been a balm to his eyes. So the eight mule-drawn wagons jolting along the rutted trail below are a bit of a shock.

A loose collection of mules and horses meander to one side. Gerald stops, considering. Approaching the train is the sensible thing to do. It’s pure luck that he hasn’t encountered any Indians so far. But he isn’t quite ready to give up the silent grassland, regardless of the risk to his light brown skin.

Then a long-haired man with a wind-reddened face canters a chestnut-colored horse out from the wagon train. A firearm is braced in the crook of his right arm. Gerald moves toward him, down the slope.

The man on the chestnut reins in at a safe distance, rifle still in a position to be easily lifted and fired. Gerald stops walking and lifts his hands away from his sides, palms out.

“Ya’ll stranded?” the man calls.

Gerald takes off his hat, runs his hand through his curly black hair, and shakes his head. “Headed west.”

The man turns his head and spits. “Lose yer ride?”

“I figure my feet are more dependable.”

The man snorts. “And slower.”

“They also give me a lower profile, out of Indian sight.”

The other man nods begrudgingly, then jerks his head toward the caravan. “Wagon master says come on in, he’ll trade ya for a mount ’n some food.”

“Where are you headed?” Gerald asks.

“Santa Fe, where else?”

“I’m hoping to reach Don Fernando de Taos.”

“Same thing, pretty much. North o’ Santa Fe a couple o’ days.” The man jerks his head toward the wagon train again. “Young’s got a mercantile there.”

“Young?”

“The train master. Ewing Young. He’s been merchanting, bringin’ in goods from Missouri, selling ’em, then goin’ back fer more.” The chestnut stirs restlessly. “Come on in an’ he’ll tell ya himself.”

If he refuses, they’ll suspect him of trouble and who knows where that will lead? Gerald nods and follows the horseman toward the wagons.

As he gets closer, a tall powerfully built man wearing fringed buckskins and a broad-brimmed felt hat walks out from the lead wagon. In his early thirties, the man’s air of command is enhanced by intelligent brown eyes under a high forehead, a hawkish nose, and a mouth that looks as if it rarely smiles.

“Well now, it’s not often we find someone walkin’ the trail,” he says in a Tennessee drawl. He looks steadily into Gerald’s face.

“A horse seemed like an unnecessary expense and more than likely to make me a target,” Gerald says.

“It’s a slow way to travel, though,” the other man observes.

Gerald glances toward the wagon trundling past at the pace of a slow-walking mule. The way it lurches over the rutted track says it’s heavy with goods. “If I had what you’re carrying, it would be,” he says.

The man sticks out his hand. “I’m Ewing Young, owner of this outfit.” He jerks a thumb toward the rider who’d met Gerald on the hill. “This here’s Charlie Westin, my scout.”

Gerald nods at the scout and reaches to shake Ewing Young’s hand. “I’m Gerald Locke Jr., hoping to one day own an outfit.” He grins, gray eyes crinkling in his square brown face. “Though not a wagon outfit.”

Young chuckles. “Well, out here just about anything’s possible.” The last of the wagons trundles past and he gestures at it. “Come along to camp and we’ll talk about how you can get started on that.”

Gerald falls into step with the older man, cursing himself for a fool. He doesn’t need to tell his intentions to everyone he meets. It comes from not speaking to another living being in the last five days, he thinks ruefully. Solitude makes a man too quick to speech. How often has his father repeated, “Words can be a burden”? He’d do well to heed that idea. Especially until he knows the character of the men he’s fallen in with.

So when the small train stops that night, Gerald says nothing of joining his father or of his desire for land. That he’s from Missouri and going west to try his fortune are all that Young needs to know.

It seems to be all he wants to know. The men with him are silent, clearly playing subordinate roles, and the wagon master does the talking, mostly about himself and the part his merchandise is playing in opening up the Santa Fe trade.

“It’s slow goin’ though,” he says. “Now, trappin’s a way to make yourself some real money. But it’s a risky business. You’ve got to throw in with the right men and steer clear of the Mexican officials as much as you can.” He grimaces and shakes his head. “The Mexican government’s as changeable as the weather when it comes to what’s allowed and what’s not.” He takes a sip from his tin cup of coffee. “The best way to do it, is to find a seasoned man to work with. Someone who can show you the ropes and knows whose hands to grease.”

Gerald raises an eyebrow. “New Mexico sounds like it’s not much different from Missouri.”

Young chuckles and looks into the fire. “Oh, it’s different all right. For one thing, the women are more forgiving. And the houses the people live in are like nothin’ you’ve ever seen. But government’s government no matter where you go, so the main thing is to steer clear of it as much as possible. That’s why I like Taos. It’s a good stretch from the official center of things. And it’s within strikin’ distance of good fur country. Trappers bring in the furs and I trade for ’em. Do a little trapping myself, for that matter.” He swings his head, eyes on Gerald’s face. “But Charlie says you’re headin’ there, not Santa Fe. Where’d you learn about Taos, anyhow?”

Gerald shrugs. “I don’t rightly know,” he lies. “Someone passing through, I suppose.”

And that’s all it takes. Young gives him a sharp look, then nods as if he approves. “We could use another man on the remuda,” he says.

Gerald feels something like hope stir in his chest. Could it be this easy?

But then he turns his head and catches the flat contemptuous gaze of a big man with long, matted dirty-blond hair, who’s leaning against a nearby wagon bed. He knows. In spite of Gerald’s light skin that could pass for a tanned white man, and the red highlights in his wavy black hair, he knows.

Rebellion stirs. Gerald’s eyes tighten and he looks deliberately at Ewing Young. “Remuda?” he asks.

Young gestures toward the herd of mules and horses grazing beside the wide, dusty track that breaks across the prairie. “What in New Mexico they call the extra mounts we’ve brought along as spares. I could do with another herder. Not much in wages, but bread and board and a mount.”

Gerald’s lips twitch as he remembers the Missouri farmer who refused his back wages and predicted he’d be back within a month. He looks into Ewing Young’s eyes. “I can do that,” he says.

As he unrolls his bedding that night, Gerald shakes his head. His father’s letter said a man isn’t judged by his color out here. Is it possible that it’s not even noticed? Then he tamps down the tingle of hope. Some men do notice and judge. The dirty-haired blond man with the narrow blue eyes certainly seems to suspect something. Can somehow tell that, along with the Irish and Cherokee blood in Gerald’s veins, there’s blackness in there, too.

Gerald scowls. Somehow, that piece of his heritage outweighs everything else. But not, apparently, for everyone, he reminds himself. And Young is the boss, not the man with the sneer. He’ll just have to wait and see. To work for a man who accepts him as just any other man would be a new experience in itself.

The work is simple enough: keep the loose horses and mules alongside the wagon train, spell a teamster when it’s needed, brush down whatever mount he’s ridden that day. The days are long and, when sundown comes, no one’s in much of a mood for talk.

There’s also guard duty. Each man takes a shift every three nights, watching to make sure the animals don’t stray, or that interested coyotes or wolves don’t get too close. No one speaks of the possibility of human interest in the resting animals, but there’s always that danger, as well.

But it’s another week before there’s any sign of other humans on the prairie. Young’s merchandise train bumps steadily along the dusty Santa Fe Trail, the grass beside it growing ever more golden-brown as the autumn heat bakes the ground, the loose herd wandering a little farther off trail each day as they search for tender shoots in the occasional water seep. Gerald follows their wanderings on his plodding horse, both of them half-asleep in the warm fall sun.

Enoch Jones, the man who’d scowled when Gerald and Young were negotiating Gerald’s pay, is also with the remuda, but he’s made a point of steering clear of Gerald, so Gerald’s lost his edge of concern about the big man. He’s stretching himself sleepily, trying to stay awake, when there’s a sudden hail from the head wagon.

Gerald looks up to see Ewing Young half-standing on the wagon seat. He’s leaning out from the wagon and rotating his arms over his head, signaling the herders to move the remuda closer to the train. Charlie’s on his horse beside the wagon, his head turned to focus on a low ridge to the south.

As the spare animals move closer to the train, Young swings onto a horse and rides out to meet the herders, the scout behind him.

“Charlie tells me we’re goin’ to have company shortly,” Young says. “We’ll make a halt up on that rise ahead.” He gestures toward the loose animals. “When we do, I want all these hobbled or staked close by so they can’t be run off.”

“Comanche?” someone asks.

Young shakes his head. “Pawnee. They should be friendly. They don’t look painted up and he didn’t see any war shields.” He turns to gaze at the ridge to the south. A line of men on ponies is strung out along its top, facing the train. They could be trees, they’re so still. Young turns back to his men. “Go cautious, though. No gun waving. No heroics.”

Enoch Jones growls “Coward,” and there’s a low mutter from the men at the back of the group.

His mount moves restlessly, but Young just turns to his scout. “Charlie, why don’t you go see what they want. Raise both hands comin’ back if they’re lookin’ to trade.”

The scout’s face tightens, but he nods and turns the chestnut’s head. They all watch silently as he trots toward the waiting Indians. When he reaches sign-language distance, half a dozen yards below the ridge, there’s a long tense moment. Charlie moves his hands, then one of the Pawnee moves his. Finally, Charlie turns and begins to trot back, both hands up and waving.

The tension goes out of the group. The herders scatter to gather the remuda and follow the wagons up the trail. When the train stops, the teamsters leave their mules in their traces but the herders vault from their mounts to hobble or stake out the spares. When Gerald’s finished his work, he heads for the train, where the teamsters are pulling boxes of goods from the wagon beds.

Young moves along the little train, confirming what should be displayed and what left covered. “No liquor,” he says as he passes the third wagon. “Move those jugs farther back and cover up that barrel. We don’t need them to know we’ve got all that on board.”

“Too good for ’em anyway,” a teamster chuckles. “Let ’em go t’ Taos for some lightning.”

Young grins. “Make sure it’s well covered,” he says.

Gerald watches in fascination as the Pawnee canter toward the train. Their ponies are full of energy and seem to respond to the slightest touch. The men have no hair on their faces at all, whiskers or eyebrows. Gerald tries not to stare. The sides of their heads are also shaved, leaving a mop of hair and feathers on top. This has been stiffened with something that glints red in the sun, and arranged so it curves up and out over the men’s foreheads like the prow of a ship. Ridges of hair run from this puff toward the back of the warriors’ heads, then hang down their backs in a kind of braided tail. Silver and brass earrings dangle from the Pawnees’ ears.

The Indians vault off their horses and stalk alongside the wagons, looking imperiously at the goods Young’s men have pulled from the boxes. The cloth shirts the warriors are wearing with their buckskin leggings say the Pawnee have traded before. The shirts are weighted down with necklaces of shells and beads.

But it won’t do to stare. After all, Gerald’s seen Indians before, in the Missouri settlements. They aren’t a brand new phenomenon. But they seem different out here, somehow. More at home.

Certainly more confident. A tall young man strides up to Gerald and reaches toward the tooled leather scabbard at Gerald’s waist and the carved wooden handle of the knife protruding from it. Gerald starts to flinch away, then catches himself and forces himself still. He raises his eyebrows and stares inquiringly into the man’s face. The Pawnee points his index fingers into the air, then begins crossing his hands and swinging them up and back, in a kind of arch.

“He’s wantin’ to trade for yer knife,” Charlie says from behind him.

As Gerald turns toward Charlie, the Indian reaches out and pulls Gerald’s knife from its sheath. Gerald’s hand clamps instinctively on the man’s wrist. “Leave it alone!” he snaps.

“Easy now,” Charlie cautions. “Ya hafta agree it’s a right purty thing.”

Gerald turns to the Pawnee and holds out his hand. The man lays the knife in Gerald’s palm. The ten inch double-edged steel blade gleams in the prairie sun. The knife guard is well balanced and solid, the finely carved maple handle cool to the touch. Gerald’s fingers curve around it protectively.

“My father made this for me,” Gerald says. He looks at Charlie. “I won’t trade it.”

Charlie nods and turns to the Pawnee. His hands gesture rapidly and the man looks again at the knife, then into Gerald’s face. He nods, looks at Charlie, moves his own hands in a few fluid gestures, then turns and is gone.

“This talking with the hands is hard to get used to,” Gerald says. “What did you say?”

“That it was made by yer father fer you only, an’ its medicine would be bad fer anyone who takes it away from ya.”

Gerald grins. “He swallowed that?”

“He said it’s good for a man to own such a thing from his ancestors and yer a wise man to protect it.”

“Thanks Charlie. I appreciate it.” Gerald looks down at the knife again, then slips it back into its sheath. He grins. “Guess I’d better try to learn some sign language.”

It’s another eight days before they see more Indians. They’re Kiowa this time, and they also want to trade. Ewing Young agrees and again orders his men to cover the liquor in the third wagon and place a guard on it. “That bourbon isn’t intended for the likes of them,” he says, turning away. He looks at Charlie. “In fact, let’s put all the trade goods up front by the lead wagon.”

But the Kiowa don’t seem at all interested in the third wagon. The older men cluster around the trade goods while the younger men wander freely along the rest of the wagons, stopping now and then to chat in sign language with a teamster or herder, or standing to gaze at the hobbled horses and mules nearby.

Gerald hasn’t been assigned guard duty, but he happens to be passing the fourth wagon when the shoving starts. Enoch Jones staggers to one side and his spine scrapes against the wagon wheel. He comes up in a crouch, long bone-handled knife at the ready. Steel flashes in the hand of the long-haired teenage Kiowa who pushed him, and the men standing guard on the liquor wagon, Charlie included, form a silent circle around the combatants.

Gerald glances toward the third wagon. A younger Indian, no more than a boy, is climbing over the tailgate, his yellow-painted leather moccasins braced on the rim of the big wheels as he leans to push the wagon’s canvas cover to one side.

“Hah!” Gerald shouts. Startled, the youngster looks toward him. Gerald laughs. “Good try!” He waves his hands as he walks toward the wagon, shooing the boy away. The boy looks toward the combatants, shrugs, pushes his long black hair away from his face, and hops down. The wagon guards turn to look. They grin sheepishly, then move back into position.

The teenager who’d pushed Jones glances toward them, then tosses his knife into the dirt and lifts his empty palms toward Jones. He grins mischievously, his silver earrings flashing in the sunlight. Jones scowls in confusion.

“We’ve been had,” one of the guards tells him. “Bloody devils were tryin’ to distract us to get at the liquor.”

“Bastards!” Jones growls. He lunges toward the Kiowa boy, but the Indian dances backwards, swoops down to retrieve his knife, then flashes Jones another smile and turns on his heel to trot toward the men clustered around the lead wagon.

“It’s just a couple of kids,” Gerald says.

Jones glares at him and opens his mouth, but then Charlie says, “They’ll be trying the mules an’ horses next,” and Jones sticks his knife back into his belt and heads off toward the remuda.

That night, Ewing Young settles beside Gerald as they drink the last round of coffee by the fire. “Good work there today,” Young says. “Kept a battle from starting.”

“Would it have gone that far?” Gerald asks in surprise.

“You never can tell. How’d you know what they were up to?”

“I guess I’ve learned to watch out for the unexpected.”

Young grins. “Even Charlie got caught by that one. And here I thought you were a green hand.”

“When it comes to the wilderness, I am,” Gerald says. “But when it comes to people, I’ve got more experience than I would prefer.”

Young studies him, a question in his eyes, but Gerald turns his face to the fire. Once again, he’s said more than he should have. But it doesn’t seem to matter to Young, who nods thoughtfully, then rises to name the men who’ll take the first watch.

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New Year, New Book!

I’m pleased to announce that my novel The Texian Prisoners will be published in March next year and that the ebook is now available for pre-order!

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

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

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

Available for pre-order from Amazon.com and other ebook retailers.

Manuel Armijo, The Ultimate Politician?

A man named Manuel Armijo repeatedly plays a critical role in my forthcoming biographical novel There Will Be Consequences, which is set during the 1837/38 New Mexico tax rebellion. This isn’t the only time Armijo appeared in New Mexico’s history. In fact, you could say he played a repeating role throughout the Mexican period (1821 to 1846).

One of 15 children from a rico Albuquerque-area family, Armijo was around 30 years old when Mexico gained independence in 1821. A tall, good looking man with family connections throughout New Mexico, he became civil governor in May 1827. His term was short, ending in 1828, and marked by conflicts with the American trappers and traders who had arrived with independence.

Over the next decade, Armijo remained active in politics, serving as Albuquerque alcalde and militia lieutenant and using his influence to get the Santa Fe postmaster reinstated after being removed for mismanagement. In Spring 1836, Armijo was made New Mexico’s interim treasurer while the appointee, Francisco Sarracino, was under investigation for embezzlement.

Shortly after Sarracino was reinstated in July 1837, rebellion broke out in northern New Mexico. The insurrectionists were initially successful in taking over the capitol at Santa Fe, but the rico landowners further south quickly rallied and named Armijo commander of the loyalist forces.

Through what appears to have been a combination of lucky breaks (a rebel governor who allowed himself to be jailed instead of fleeing) and persuasion (prominent rebels who later agreed to take the man’s place in said jail). Armijo managed to get the insurrectos out of Santa Fe. But they didn’t disperse, they merely withdrew. Now interim governor, Armijo spent the winter of 1837/38 alternately threatening to kill his rebel prisoners and cajoling the insurrectionists into behaving by asking them to clarify their grievances so he could address them.

In reality, Armijo was biding his time. One of his first actions as commander had been to send a request south to Chihuahua for troops to reinforce New Mexico’s militia and small garrison of presidio soldiers. When the requested dragoons arrived in January 1838, the governor’s gloves came off. He ordered his rebel prisoners beheaded and marched north.

This time, with adequate troops behind him, Armijo was able to deal a decisive blow that effectively ended the rebellion. His reward for suppressing the insurrection was to remain in office as both civil and military governor, positions that were usually split between two people. His administration lasted through 1844, when he was suspended for a short time.

Armijo was reinstated for a third term in 1845, but the third time was not the charm. The following year, the Americans invaded in what is now known as the Mexican-American War. After much rhetoric and possibly a payoff, Armijo fled south ahead of the U.S. Army. He would be much castigated for this, even by later American historians, although his flight may well have saved New Mexican lives.

The pundits saw him as weak, cowardly, and greedy, a view that may have influenced their perspective on events nine years earlier. They reported that Armijo balked at the January 1838 battle until a dragoon captain forced his hand and some accused him of fomenting the rebellion in order to regain his position as governor. They even claimed that he had the prisoners executed in January 1838 in order to suppress what they knew about his involvement in the rebel coup. I have found no evidence to support either assertion. However, the very fact they were made seems to say a great deal about the complexity and power of Armijo’s character and his hold on the imagination of subsequent historians.

While I was writing There Will Be Consequences, I spent a good deal of time ruminating on the motivations of a man who seemed to have a knack for persuading people to do things contrary to their own interests and who was also quick to put people to death if it suited his needs. Was Armijo simply a selfish, cowardly scoundrel? Or was there more to him than met the historians’ eyes? Why would he hesitate to face the rebels at Pojoaque Pass when the odds were in his favor? Perhaps he really cared about the people and peace of New Mexico and worried about the impact of yet more deaths. Maybe he believed the executions two days before would be enough to bring the insurrectionists to heel.

We know a good deal about what Armijo did—or is said to have done—in the Fall and Winter of 1837/38. However, we don’t know what he was thinking. His actions and hesitation together give me the sense of a complex man with varied motivations. This makes him a fascinating character to write.

Which is a good thing, because he’s bound to show up in future Old New Mexico novels, following There Will Be Consequences. After all, he didn’t fade from public view until after 1846. I can hardly wait.

Fiction and Fact From Old New Mexico

LorettaMilesTollefson.com

Tag: Old New Mexico fiction

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 7

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 6

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 5

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 4

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 3

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 2

That Free Chapter….

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

New Year, New Book!

Manuel Armijo, The Ultimate Politician?

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CHAPTER 1

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