by Win
“Where’s Coy?”
“Dead.”
Sam saw sadness flush into Flat Dog’s eyes. Then he said, “You look like you need something to eat.”
“Let’s go.”
Julia fed him, fed him, and fed him some more. The mountain way was to eat all you could when you got the chance. Some men could eat ten pounds, it was said, at a sitting.
Sam realized he must have been wandering around the desert longer than he realized, and in worse shape. People looked at him like he was a ghost—even Esperanza was leery of him. Now she sat nearby playing with some painted cornstalk dolls packed up from Santa Fe. From to time she looked half secretly at her papá. Occasionally, she would offer a doll to her cousin Azul, six months younger, and the boy would stab the doll with his toy arrow.
The sun was down behind the western mountains, and twilight took its leisure in the valley of the Siskadee. The light itself seemed blue-gray. The creek curled dark into the river. Cottonwood leaves stirred in a lazy downstream breeze. The desert evening was cooling off. At dark everything would breathe easier.
Sam sat in front of Flat Dog and Julia’s tipi—he was no longer a tipi-dweller himself, but theirs felt good to him. While he was here, he would live with them like a brother. That was half comfortable for Esperanza. Flat Dog’s younger brother, the one living brother, was one of the ones she called masaka, father in the Crow language, so in a way she was already used to having two dads.
Julia handed Sam a cradleboard—no, a baby in a cradleboard. “A boy,” she said.
The baby was sucking in his sleep. The cradleboard made Sam’s mind run to Esperanza when she was a month or so old.
“Two months,” she said, “Rojo.”
“Rojo? First blue, now red? You going for a flag?”
She laughed, took the cradleboard, and hung it from a limb. “While you’re here, I’m going to practice my English,” she said in English.
Julia was the best woman Sam knew. He and Flat Dog met her at Los Angeles pueblo, and Flat Dog was smitten instantly. The seventeen-year-old Señorita Julia Rubio had tawny hair, golden skin, and green eyes, altogether a mad attraction to Flat Dog. When they looked at each other, even that first time, lightning jumped between clouds.
She was the daughter of a rich don proud of his Californio heritage. Flat Dog’s rancho was his tipi.
In a whirlwind Julia eloped with Flat Dog, married him at Mission San Gabriel, and took up the rough trapper life with him. When her father had her abducted and brought home, she cooperated with Sam and Flat Dog in her own rescue and fled with them down the Los Angeles River in a wild flood. While she bore Flat Dog’s son in a rain storm on the bank of the river, Sam and Flat Dog shot it out with her father.
To cap it all, she rode more than a thousand miles with her husband, joined his family in their village of buffalo hide lodges, adopted his sister’s daughter, and settled in to become a Crow.
These memories made Sam a little dizzy.
Tomás and Baptiste came trotting up. Sam jumped to his feet and hugged Tomás. His son was only half-comfortable with that. “I’m eighteen,” he said the last time Sam hugged him. Both children standoffish, for different reasons.
“What happened?” said Tomás. They all sat down.
Sam looked into his son’s eyes. “Vici is stolen. Alice is dead.”
Tomás’s eyes flamed.
“Let it come out in the whole story before you₀” Sam waited, and Tomás nodded.
Flat Dog, Julia, Esperanza, Azul, everyone came close to hear the tale.
Sam recounted how he blundered down the creek and onto the Blackfeet, ran away uphill on Vici, had to abandon him and Alice, and hid in a cleft. “I lost my pipe,” he said.
Flat Dog nodded. He knew Sam would carry the pipe in a bag behind his saddle, and he knew how serious this loss was.
Sam told briefly of Vici being injured and how he ran part of the herd off and so stole Alice back. He saw that Tomás’s eyes got shadowy when he heard about Vici and Alice.
Sam forced himself on. He told in detail of his flight into Flaming Gorge and of the river. “It was damned scary to go into that water. Alice was plucky.”
Now Sam used his hands to show how he and Alice swam downstream of a certain boulder, swam hard to cross the current above the next one, and so on. Both times he was knocked off Alice got told with high drama, and how he grabbed the mare’s tail and clambered back on—amazing in a raging river, everyone agreed. Sam put juice into the story, for Esperanza’s sake.
But he couldn’t stall forever. He had to tell how he and Alice fetched up on the big rock, she tumbled on over, and floated into the dead fir that sucked her under and held her.
He held Tomás’s eyes and took the anger. Then he let himself look at Esperanza. His daughter looked at Sam gape-mouthed, which was an improvement on Tomás.
“Querida,” he told her, “a man can’t lift a horse from underneath a dead tree with his hands.” He didn’t need to mention the current too.
Sam watched his daughter as he told the rest of the story. Her skin was a light honey color, her eyes hazel, and her hair a kind of rust brown, one of the colors of lichen growing on rock. He thought she was beautiful, and he saw Meadowlark everywhere in her face and graceful body.
He told how he hunted and hunted for Coy on the bank. Looking directly at his daughter, he spoke of his pain when he realized his companion of ten years was dead, and leaving without his friend.
He made short shrift of the struggle of walking all the way to rendezvous. He told about finding the buffalo carcass and scavenging a little meat. He saw Esperanza looking at his ribs, which stuck out like rafters. Oh, well, he thought, not always a hero.
Not to Tomás either. The young man stood up with sulk in his shoulders and walked away. In a couple of minutes he came back leading Paladin. “Here’s your horse,” he said. “She threw a nice filly. I took care of both of them.”
“Tomás, I’m sorry. Vici and Alice…” The youth’s only horses. “Vici was a great one.”
Tomás handed Paladin’s reins to Sam and walked away. “Tomás.” The youth turned back. “I want you to have Kallie.”
Sam’s son threw him an icy glare and walked off.
Kallie was a three-year-old mare out of Paladin. Sam had her in mind to use her as a trail horse, saving Paladin for buffalo-running and trick riding. She wasn’t as developed as Vici, but few horses were. Vici was also out of Paladin—he looked just like her—and Tomás had put several years into training her as a buffalo horse and a circus trickster. It would take a lot of time to make Kallie as good as Vici.
Sam rubbed Paladin’s ears the way she liked. Then he checked out the new filly. She was pretty, the third of Paladin’s offspring with markings just like her mother.
He asked Baptiste, “Where’s Joaquin?”
“Staggering around drunk,” Baptiste said. “You want to walk, see people?” Friends not seen since last rendezvous. Trading stories, getting the news, finding out who’d gone under and who’d brought off a miraculous escape. Camaraderie warmed by firelight and lubricated with whiskey.
“Tomorrow,” said Sam. “I need some rest.”
Baptiste nodded, patted Sam on the shoulder, and walked into the evening.
The vagrant got up, said goodnight to Esperanza, who barely noticed, and led Paladin to the creek. He watched her slurp up the clear, cold liquid, and thought how good she’d been to him for ten years, how hurt he’d be if he lost her. Like Tomás was.
When he’d staked her again by the tipi, he ducked inside. Whoops! He had to stick his head back out and ask to borrow blankets. He stretched out in the tipi. Sleep might not come soon—mountains to the west meant a long twilight—but the blankets felt good. It was strange lying down without Coy at his feet. It would be strange for a long time.
He came awake when Julia put Esperanza and Azul down in the blankets across the fire pit from him. He barely opened his eyes. In the shadows Esp
eranza laid down, sat up, looked at the man who claimed to be her father, made a face, and flumped her head down.
Sam woke in the pre-dawn light, as was his way. When he looked around, he saw his semi-annual packet laid near his head, a letter from Grumble. He picked it up and checked on Esperanza, sleeping contentedly. He wished he could check on her every morning of her life. Then he slipped outside, pulled Paladin’s stake, and led the mare down to water. It felt odd for Coy not to walk with them for this morning ritual.
When he’d re-staked the mare, he walked over to the tent where his trade goods would be offered during the day. No one was stirring this early. He ducked under the flap, got the lap desk where the records were kept, and took pen and paper. Then he walked down by the creek to read.
Twice a year he heard from Grumble, in December when he got to Rancho de las Palomas, and in July when he got to rendezvous.
Now he would have to send Grumble an address other than the rancho. He didn’t know what it would be. Maybe the Young and Wolfskill store in Taos, for he wouldn’t winter in Santa Fe again. He didn’t know where he would go from rendezvous. He needed to find Lupe and Rosalita. He needed to get a new pipe, and that would be tricky.
Grumble was the second oldest friend of Sam’s new life, the life he chose in the West.
The first was Hannibal MacKye. When Sam’s eighteen-year-old heart was broken by a girl, he ran into the night and to Hannibal’s fire. There he got the piece of advice that changed his world: “Everything worthwhile is crazy,” Hannibal told him, “and everyone on the planet who’s not following his wild-hair, middle-of-the-night notions should lay down his burden, right now, in the middle of the row he’s hoeing, and follow the direction his wild hair points.”
Sam carried a written-out copy of those words for years, until it fell apart at the creases—carried it even before he learned to read.
The second friend was Grumble. A day or two later the middle-aging con man with the face of a cherub saved Sam from the Pittsburgh police. When they ran and hid, they ended up in the hold of a keelboat that carried them all the way to the Mississippi River, the border of the West. Along the way Grumble taught Sam to be a very junior con artist, and the two of them made a third fast friend, the madam Abby.
Now Abby and Grumble ran a house of music, dancing, dubious games of chance, and ladies of no reputation in Monterey, the capital of California. And Grumble wrote to Sam faithfully twice each year, sending his packets by sailing ship all the way around Cape Horn:
December 26, 1832
at Monterey, a small place of great pretensions
My dear young friend,
This is boxing day, the feast of St. Stephen, the first Christian martyr. When I was a boy in the bishop’s house—
An orphan, Grumble had been raised by the bishop of Baltimore—
this was the day when the bishop opened the poor boxes and gave money to the poor. As a clever gesture in his honor (which the good father would be ashamed of), I have always made it a day to give special attention to taking money from those who have too much. In every city of Christendom known to me, and even this strange if entrancing place, the dens of iniquity are full of sinners the day after Christmas, and their pockets full of money. Since I know you would want it, I will put a tithe of the take into the poor box tomorrow, I promise.
Not that I need to perform any sleight of hand to get pesos. The citizens of this place give them to Abby and me gladly in exchange for our iniquitous services, as do the sailors who frequent the port. In its way this is a cosmopolitan small town, for ships from every port of the world call here continually. And you know that I must have my little amusements.
Grumble was a gambler and con artist of exceptional talent, and Sumner’s teacher. Sam knew that these little card games would only whet his appetite. He liked the big cons, such as performing a miracle healing before a crowd and getting a hundred people to pay him to lay hands on them, or staging an elaborate ruse with a helper on a steamboat, getting off, and repeating the con on a different pigeon on the return trip.
Abby has built a fine adobe house in the hills above town, where she lives like a grand lady. As you will suppose, she also carries on in the tradition of the great courtesans. The object of her heart is usually the richest man in the region or the commandante of the presidio. (How does she direct her affections so cleverly?)
My abode is the garret of our cantina. Living in a rabbit hole suits me.
Your friend Gideon Poorboy prospers to a remarkable degree.
Gideon. Which made Sam think of the silversmith’s wedding present to him and… Paloma, making her way to the shrine of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
Gideon rode peg-legged with Sam to California, and there apprenticed himself to a goldsmith and silversmith who made liturgical objects for the missions.
The señoras have made him in vogue, and he is forever fashioning the gaudy, jeweled rings, brooches, and hair ornaments they adore. Now a young woman of good family has claimed him for her own. Instead of losing his pesos to me (I am incorrigible) he rocks and coos an infant son.
California and Californios, I confess, interest me more and more. Their costumes are colorful, their streets drenched in enchantment, and their manner of life languid and sensual. I had not imagined that Catholics could be so blithely unaffected by the stern doctrines of the church.
Monterey Bay, of course, is mesmerizing.
Sam thought it was it was the most enchanting place he’d ever seen. For him it was also danger and death.
More Americans come to California each year. The Mexicans know that the nation to the east, with its hunger for land, must eventually seize this western coast. Many would prefer American governance to their current subjugation to the whims of Mexico City. Life is easy here—any man can be a prosperous, farmer, artisan, tradesman. And California does not have the American madness about color of skin. The races mix comfortably here, and that must increase: More people of different nationalities come with each ship, and more children of mixed blood are born daily. The engine of miscegenation is at work. and will overpower all.
Sam was damn well in favor of that, for the sake of his children.
I confess that I write these semi-annual letters in order to get back your news. Please write immediately and start your letter on its long journey by mule pack, river boat, and sail-powered venturer of the high seas. We long for word of you.
In fact, why don’t you just come to see us? It won’t cost you either dollars or pesos. You and I could take a ship to San Francisco, or Los Angeles, or San Diego, and filch a year or two of your meager earnings from the officers. Or if you have lost the taste for genuine fun, you could always steal a thousand or two horses from the missions. In any case, COME.
I predict that you will end up living in this clime. A young man with a mixed-blood child would do well to think of California.
Abby sends her love and I my avuncular affections,
Grumble
Sam had to write back immediately. He was late to rendezvous, and the pack train might pull out for the States any day. He dipped his pen and put it to paper—“Dear Grumble and Abby—” He remembered with gratitude that the men who taught him to read and write English in the winter of 1827-28 were Grumble and Hannibal.
This return letter would not be easy. He had to tell Grumble about Paloma’s illness and journey of death. But he could also report good news about Esperanza, and Tomás.
As he began to write, he wiggled his right foot, and suddenly realized that Coy wasn’t next to it, curled up.
Another loss to confess.
He listened to the bubble-gurgle of the creek and wrote.
26
“Lupe and Rosalita aren’t here,” said Tomás.
Baptiste added, “Pegleg isn’t here.”
“What?” This was a slap in the face. As Julia handed Sam his cup, he sloshed hot coffee onto his hand.
“Nobody’s seen them,” said Tomás.
&nbs
p; “Walkara says they’re on their way,” said Baptiste.
“But he’s a slaver and a liar.”
Sam thought.
“We figured you didn’t need to hear this yesterday,” said Tomás.
Sam smiled inwardly. For Tomás, holding back must have been a struggle.
“So what do you think?”
“We go make the diablo tell us,” said Tomás.
Walkara’s first words were, “They’ll be here.”
Sam shook his head. “It’s late. We were all late, and they are…”
“My friends, you must be patient.”
The so-called friends of the Ute chief waited irritably for an explanation.
“Pegleg,” said Walkara, “he is like me. He wants to make a life trading. He wanted to go to rendezvous, to see what an … opportunity it might be. He will come.”
“A whole month he hasn’t showed up,” said Sam.
Walkara shrugged. “Pegleg naturally wants much, much to trade. Perhaps he visited the Shoshones to give them our fine horses for their hides. Perhaps he rode across the mountains to the east to see the Arapaho, who would be glad to exchange the furs of animals for horseflesh as good as the Ute people own.”
Tomás gave Walkara a disgusted eye, and Sam went along with that.
The chief grinned at them and spread his hands. He was enjoying this. “My friends, you know. Let us suppose even further. Maybe Pegleg rode east to find the Comanches. The Comanches like to buy women, and your sisters are fine ones.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“The Comanches also like to sell women and children. Maybe Pegleg went looking for a bargain. I know he liked your sisters, but a man gets tired of any woman.”
Sam seized Tomás by the arm. He was surprised he didn’t have to catch the youth in mid-charge.
“Well,” said Sam, “Walkara. You think maybe Pegleg went to Taos?”
Tomás’s head jerked sideways at his father. This would really get his goat.
Walkara shook his head no. “The great trade fair in Taos takes place in the autumn,” he said.
The chief and the beaver men stared at each other. Then the trappers stalked off.
