The shadow man, p.5
The Shadow Man, page 5
“Come and sit a spell,” Dexter said, and motioned to a chair. He recalled the day four years earlier when Tamarron had deposited a thousand dollars with him. Each year thereafter, the trapper had brought additional money.
“What’s happening, Andrew? Bring me up-to-date on the news. How’s the banking business?”
“The interest rate is eight percent. I think soon I’ll be able to raise it to nine. Santa Fe is growing slowly but steadily, and there’s a demand for cash money.”
“What about land values?” asked Jacob.
“Since the governor raised taxes on all property last year, the price of land has fallen some. Why do you ask?”
“This is my last year for trapping, and I’ll be looking around for something to work at. Americans can’t settle on land and claim it in Mexico like they can in the States, so I may look for a small ranch to buy.”
Tamarron saw a doubtful expression pass over the merchant’s countenance. “These are uncertain times to be buying land. Also there’re at least four hundred thousand cattle and sheep grazing in the Rio Grande Valley right now. There’s not enough of a market in Santa Fe for all these animals; and other markets for our wool and hides, either north in the States or south to Mexico, are so far away that transportation costs eat up nearly all the profit. Hard money is scarce, and most trading is by barter. The American traders coming down the Santa Fe Trail from Independence and you trappers are about the only source of gold. None comes from Mexico City, that’s for certain.”
“I was thinking about looking on the other side of the mountains on the Rio Pecos. I was through that country two years ago, and there were a few ranchos on big Spanish land grants. The grass looked good, tall, and thick.”
“Those folks on the Pecos may have an advantage over the Rio Grande ranchos. They can take their hides and wool into Mexico or to Texas without paying Governor Armijo’s tax. But even those ranchers are surviving mostly by bartering their products for supplies to operate their ranchos.”
“The Mescalero Apache claim the land on both sides of the Rio Pecos. Have they caused any trouble lately?”
“Five men were caught and killed by Indians last fall. And bandits often make hit-and-run raids. But the Mexican families are a brave and hardy lot and are still holding on to most of their animals. Their haciendas are fortresses, but they need more fighting men to be really safe from attack.”
“Some day that Rio Pecos Valley will be running a quarter million cows,” Jacob said. He removed his gold from the pouch slung over his shoulder and stacked it on the table. “I’d like to put this two thousand dollars in your vault.”
“Do you want it loaned out at interest?”
“No. In fact, I’d like to have all my money on the cash side of your ledger.”
“I can do that. I’ll shift your loans to some new money I’ve taken from other trappers during the last few days.”
“Andy, I’d prefer gold. Do you have enough hard money to cover all I’ve got with you?”
Dexter pulled a large flat book from his desk and scanned down a series of entries. “You have seven thousand eight hundred dollars, plus two hundred and ninety in interest. I do have that much gold. It’ll run me close for a few days, but I will lay your money in gold on the cash side of the vault. I’ll start charging you my usual fee for holding it.”
“That’s fair,” Tamarron said. “Keep it all handy. I may want it on short notice.” Jacob climbed to his feet. “Andy, I’m always pleased to do business with you, but now I’ve got to go. My horses have had rough treatment lately and need feed and a good stall to rest in.”
Dexter watched Tamarron move with long, gliding strides along the aisle. The trapper was a strong fighter and a skilled hunter, but Dexter didn’t think a ranch would hold him through even one rotation of the seasons.
* * *
Tamarron led his horses to a stable just off the square and ordered a gallon of grain for each, and all the hay they could eat. When the stable man began to feed the animals, Jacob left, carrying his firearms and duffel.
He headed for La Fonda, cutting across a block of drab adobe houses, the walls and the mica-lime whitewash stained and eroded by the rains and snows and winds of the winter. He passed animal yards, dry irrigation ditches, and vegetable gardens brown and winter-barren, and came out on the plaza near La Fonda.
The beggar was gone from in front of the hotel. The juggler had moved his act to the opposite side of the square. He still drew no attention from the men and women on the street.
Tamarron shoved aside the thick wooden door of La Fonda and entered. He always enjoyed staying in the comfort of the aged building. It had been constructed many years in the past and had seen the coming and going of Spanish and Mexican governors, Catholic priests, Indian chiefs, American traders of all sorts, and thousands of other travelers.
The lobby was high-ceilinged with thick wooden beams supporting the roof. The earthen floor was covered by gerga, a heavy, tightly woven cloth. A giant fireplace was full of crackling flames from burning pine logs.
Two Mexicans and a man who could have been an American sat before the fire in big chairs draped with Indian blankets. They glanced at Jacob as he passed, then went back to their discussion in rapid Spanish.
Jacob registered and received his key and directions to his room. He ordered a hot tub of water to be made ready in the bath located at the back of the hotel. Carrying his belongings, he walked down a long, dim hallway full of the musty smell of old adobe.
The hotel room was larger than the whole cabin that Daniel and he had lived in. A wide bed, with a feather tick, clean cotton sheets, and woolen blankets, occupied much of the space. There was a pile of wood near a fireplace in one corner of the room. A coal-oil lamp sat on a small table. One straight-backed chair completed the furnishings. The room was more than ample for Jacob.
He laid his rifle and pistol on the table and piled the remainder of his gear on the floor. There was a chill in the room, so Jacob lit a fire. He lay down on the bed. There would be time for a short nap while the bathwater was being heated.
* * *
“I want a tub filled to here with hot water,” Jacob touched his chin as he spoke to the Mexican boy in the bathhouse. “Also have an extra bucket of water heating and ready when I call for it.”
“Si, Señor. It will be done exactly as you wish,” the boy said. “I will fill the tub now.” He began to carry water and pour it into a tub in one of the cubicles of the bathhouse.
Jacob eased himself into the warm water of the deep tub. The liquid encased him to the very point he’d indicated to the Mexican. He sighed at the pleasurable feel of the water on his skin. He dipped his hand in a bowl of soft soap and began to lather himself.
When the liquid started to cool, he ordered the hot bucket of water and reheated the tub. What was five cents when a man felt so damn good?
The water lost its heat again, so he climbed out, dried himself, and donned his fresh set of buckskins. He tossed his dirty clothing to the attendant.
“Burn these,” Jacob said.
* * *
The barber waited as the trapper inspected himself in the big mirror hanging on the wall. The shaggy-haired man seemed to be taking special pains to examine himself.
Jacob twisted his head from side to side, peering at the white in his beard. He untied his brown hair and extended a lock to look at it. Five months had passed since he’d last seen his reflection. The amount of additional gray surprised him. He would shorten his hair, but there would still be many streaks of gray left. The beard would certainly have to go.
He stepped nearer to the mirror. Every cold wind and all the burning sun he had ever encountered over the years were etched in lines on the brown skin of his face. Those years had melted away like snowflakes on the palm of his hand. He grinned ruefully. He was no longer a young man.
“Shave off the beard and cut half a foot off the hair,” Jacob instructed the barber, and seated himself in the padded chair.
“I will give you a fine haircut,” promised the barber. “You shall be very handsome. All the women will love you.”
Tamarron relaxed as the barber made a soapy lather with a brush in a shaving cup. I only need one woman, Jacob thought. Just one good woman.
* * *
The boot maker was a lean, angular American. He placed his whole supply of seven pairs of boots before Jacob. “If one of these don’t fit you, I can make you a pair to order in a day.”
“Let me try them on,” Tamarron said.
He found a pair that satisfied him, a tall boot made of soft leather with good solid heels.
Carrying the boots under one arm, Jacob walked past several stores and dwellings until he spied a tailor’s shop. Soundlessly, on moccasined feet, he entered. The man working at the sewing table was unaware of his presence.
The tailor was a strong-looking man with a freckled face and big hands. But his fingers were nimble and accurate. Jacob watched him cut and snip to shape a piece of cloth into a sleeve. Then the tailor’s needle flashed and winked as he swiftly sewed with precise stitches.
Jacob was not surprised that the tailor, just as the cobbler, was an American. An American also owned the only distillery in the town. The blacksmith, gunsmith, and harness maker were gringos. The Mexicans were good cattle and sheep men. They were excellent horsemen. But most of them seemed to have a lack of interest in certain types of business ventures.
“How about a suit?” Jacob said.
The man jerked, startled at the sound of a voice so close. Then he smiled and stood up.
“I’d be glad to make you some clothing,” he said. “Cloth’s over there.” He pointed at nearly a score of bolts of fabric on a long table. A wide assortment of hats were on an adjoining display rack. “Do you want leather, cotton, or wool?”
“Let’s take a look,” Jacob said.
He examined the fabrics at length. Finally he identified what he wanted.
“Make me a suit of this gray wool. And then an extra pair of pants of the same material and a pair out of leather. I want two white cotton shirts and two of this heavier blue cotton.”
“When do you want the clothing?” asked the tailor.
“The suit and one shirt by noon tomorrow. I’ve got something that I want to start right away.”
“That’s quite a short time for all the cutting and sewing that has to be done,” said the man in surprise. “But by working part of the night and then starting early tomorrow, I can have the one outfit by noon. Let me take your measurements.”
With a practiced hand the tailor took Jacob’s dimensions and wrote them down. “That’ll be ten dollars in advance, the balance when you pick up the clothing.”
“First I need a hat,” replied Jacob. He chose a broad-brimmed, felt one with a flat crown. “Hold this for me until tomorrow.” He extended a gold coin from his pouch and paid the tailor.
* * *
The sun had fallen from the sky and lay smoldering on the horizon when Tamarron came out onto the plaza. Rays of sunlight slanted in at a low angle, striking the walls of the plaza buildings, and the adobe glowed with a soft orange radiance.
Even as Jacob watched, the sunlight weakened, and shadows filled the plaza. The laughter of the children faded away to nothing. The people left the darkening streets, vanishing into the homes and cantinas.
Lights came to life within the buildings and shined through small glass windowpanes, or the thin sheets of crystal gypsum that served as glass in most instances.
Jacob stood in a splash of light that shined out from one of the houses. Somehow, by being in the light, he felt uncomfortable, as if he were spying on the people that had created it. A heavy shutter swung shut with a thump, and the light vanished.
Jacob and a few other men, mostly mountain men, continued to wander the square in the twilight. Now and then a mixture of voices of a man, a woman, and children, a family recounting the happenings of the day, slipped out between the shutters. Jacob felt a pang of loneliness.
Three bold walkers, street whores, brightly rouged, brazenly strutted close and with teasing smiles spoke to the strolling men. Two couples struck a bargain and went off arm in arm. The last woman approached Tamarron, but he shook his head in the negative and she turned aside with a sour expression.
The dusk became darkness under the covered walkways, and Tamarron at last decided to have his evening meal. He halted and turned around, retracing his steps to a restaurant he had passed earlier.
A large man that had been following Jacob in the gloom stopped abruptly. Jacob watched the man peering through the murk at him. After a moment the man began to retreat, soundlessly walking backward. Then he spun around and went off hastily.
Tamarron recognized Unger and cursed softly. The man was not going to let the argument die. Men seeking revenge were the most dangerous of all enemies. Jacob touched the handle of his knife. Eventually he would probably have to kill Unger.
* * *
Tamarron sat in the rear of the restaurant and ate his meal of beef stew, bean soup, soft cheese, a stack of blue-corn tortillas, and sweet custard. He ordered a cup of coffee and a second sweet custard, then leaned back to finish his meal leisurely.
He listened to the hum of conversation from the crowd of diners. Two trappers in buckskin were eating near the door. Three Americans in town clothes talked in low, confidential voices and didn’t seem to be thinking of the food before them. Jacob heard the word Texas once, and a little later the word war.
He wondered what special meaning the men’s conversation might have. Texas had fought itself free from Mexico ten years ago. It had finally become a state just the past summer. Surely Mexico wouldn’t try to retake Texas from the United States.
The remaining tables held Mexican citizens talking in pleasant tones. Jacob’s mind shifted to that lingo. From a nearby table he heard the people discussing the coming of an early spring and the traces of green grass already sprouting from the earth on the south-sloping hillsides near the Rio Grande. These folk weren’t thinking of war.
Tamarron rose and left to find Tim and Deek, and to make good his promise to buy them drinks.
CHAPTER 6
Rio Pecos Valley, Mexican Territory, March 3, 1846
The band of six scalp hunters mounted on strong, long-legged mustangs, crossed the range of yellow sand hills, and halted behind the caliche bluff above the Rio Pecos. The men had been riding sixteen days since leaving Austin, Texas, pressing swiftly onward from morning’s first light until the next darkness overran them. Three times they’d stopped and ambushed small Indian camps. They had taken thirty-three scalps.
Kirker swung his tall, wiry frame down from his mount. He stretched once, then shook himself like a wolf flinging off water. The kinks, bent into his muscles from riding fifty miles since daylight, fell away from his tough body. He looked at his riders.
The men stared back at him from lean, hard faces shaded beneath broad-brimmed hats. Each member of his gang wore two Colt cap-and-ball, five-shot revolvers. On their ponies they carried a pair of the latest model rifles, breech-loading .54-caliber weapons. All were expert gunmen. They were the finest bunch of fighters Kirker had ever assembled. He believed they could whip a war party of fifty Indians, Comanche or Apache.
“Connard, you care for the horses,” Kirker said in a gravelly voice. He pointed a finger at the saddled horses, the three extra riding horses, and the two pack animals. “Keep them out of sight and quiet until the rifle work is done.”
“Hell, Kirker, I want to get in on some of the shooting,” Connard growled. “It should be some damn fine target practice from up here.”
“You’re a good rifle shot, but you’re the worst of the lot of us. Somebody has to tend the animals. That’s you. So enough said. Understand me? You’ll get some pistol shooting.”
“All right,” Connard said, grumbling.
“Settle down and rest,” Kirker said to the men. “Don’t make noise. I’ll check and see how things lay. Rauch, come with me.”
The two men went quietly across the swale toward the caliche hill separating them from a view of the Rio Pecos. When the ground angled upward, they dropped down to their knees and crawled up to the crest of the ridge to peer over cautiously.
The two-mile-wide valley of the Rio Pecos spread itself before the men. The current of the river, lying some three hundred yards distant and a hundred feet lower in elevation, sped south in a yellow, muddy flood. With a wet, drum-like rumble, the rushing torrent of water poured around the tight bends and curves. On the outside of the turns, the full force of the straining current struck the side of the river channel, and the frothy waves cut and tore at the high banks. The stream had escaped the confinement of its banks in several places, and ran in yellow fingers among the boles of the giant cottonwood and walnut trees lining the channel.
“The snow in the mountains is melting fast,” Kirker said. “The river’s risen three feet since we saw it at dawn this morning. And it’ll get worse too.” He pointed down at the bend of the river that curved away from them. “There’s the Indian camp we came to find.”
Rauch had also spotted four tepees in an open stand of large trees. The skin lodges were heavily stained with the soot of many fires. Up near the smoke holes they were nearly black. Winter storms had damaged the pyramid-like structures, and the patches that had been used to close the rents and tears showed like white scars.
“This time we got here before they left for their summer camp in the mountains,” Rauch said.
Kirker scanned the encampment and did not reply. A group of squaws knelt around a buffalo hide stretched on the ground and worked on it with sharp flint scrapers. The women wouldn’t live long enough to finish the hide.
Another woman was gathering wood downstream from the camp. She finished breaking some dead limbs into shorter lengths and loaded her arms with a heavy pile. As she passed a group of children romping and playing dangerously near the speeding floodwaters of the Pecos, she shouted out sharply to them. In laughing obedience the youngsters scurried back from the riverbank and, hollering at each other, ran off among the trees.
