The Shadow Man (4 page)

The remaining bales of pelts and the saddle were soon stowed against a wall of the room. Jacob removed his long fur coat, unbuckled his holstered pistol and knife, and placed them all on the top of his mound of possessions.

He ate a great quantity of boiled brown beans in rich soup, winter squash, and two large tortillas. Simple fare but heavily seasoned with red pepper, butter, and garlic.

Very delightful after weeks of food seasoned with nothing other than a dash of salt.

The woman noticed Jacob had finished. She went to a wooden cupboard and brought him a wedge of dried apple pie.

Jacob cut the pie into small pieces and ate it very slowly, savoring every crumb. He always had a fondness for sweets. He finished and smiled his thanks to the woman. “The food was delicious.” He laid two silver pesos on the table.

Through the evening in front of the fire, Jacob talked with Otego. They discussed the harsh winter, the growing population in the Rio Grande valley, the scarcity of open land that a man could claim, and many other things.

The fire was fueled several times, then finally allowed to burn down. The boy went sleepily to his cot. Otego and his wife retired to a double-framed bed behind a blanket partition she had hung.

Jacob had been given three sheepskins for a mattress. He spread them near the fireplace and placed his buffalo robe on top of the soft hides.

From long habit, he laid his rifle and pistol on the floor within easy reach. He rested, listening to the dissonant sound of the wind scurrying around the corners of the house and complaining of the cold outside.

The boy tossed under his bed covers and broke into a rapid babble of childish dream talk. Then he fell silent. The only sound inside the snug little home was the charcoal snapping now and then as it cooled in the fireplace.

* * *

“Señor Tamarron, wake! Wake!” The woman had Jacob by the shoulder and was shaking him violently.
“Banditos
outside! Hurry and help Joaquin!”

Jacob surged to his feet, snatching up his rifle and pistol. He has slept so soundly that Joaquin had crossed the room and opened the door without being heard. That's what came of sleeping in a house. You grew so used to the noise of other people that you became careless.

Jacob paused at the open door and warily peered outside. Joaquin was near the corral. A large Mexican stood close to him and held a pistol pointed into his face. A second Mexican, young, hardly a man, was inside the enclosure. He had a lariat, the loop spread and his arm cocked to throw. He approached Jacob's riding horse.

Two strange mounts stood in the snow just to the right of the corral. That satisfied Jacob that there were only the pair of bandits. He shoved the pistol in his belt and cocked the rifle. He moved swiftly outside.

The big Mexican spoke to Joaquin. “You have four good horses, hombre. They are skinny, but all horses are skinny this time of year. We will leave you the broken old nag. We will look inside the house and see what else you have that is worth taking.” He laughed slyly. “Is your woman pretty?”

The big man caught Jacob's movement and spun toward him. His pistol whirled to the right in Jacob's direction.

Jacob raised his rifle and quickly fired. The bullet broke the bandit's arm and plowed onward, shattering a rib and stopping in the center of his chest. The man fell to the side, burying his face in the snow.

Jacob let the rifle fall into his left hand and pulled his pistol with a flick of his hand.

At the crash of the shot the bandit in the corral spun around, dropping his lariat and reaching for his pistol. He halted his draw, his hand not yet touching the butt of the gun, for he was looking directly down the open end of the barrel of Jacob's revolver.

“Go ahead,” challenged Jacob. “See if you're fast enough to pull that gun before I can kill you.”

“No, Señor, I do not wish to try that.” There was a quiver in his voice, and the whites of his eyes showed.

“But I want you to. Grab for it like a brave
banditol”
Jacob's voice was flinty.

“No. I want only to go. I promise never to bother you again.”

Jacob laughed at the young man who would be a horse thief. Then he sobered. It was either shoot the damn fellow or let him go. He certainly didn't want to waste effort taking him to the officials in Santa Fe. Long-term prisoners weren't kept there but instead were sent the long distance south to Saltillo. That wouldn't happen to someone so young. Most probably he would serve a short sentence in the local
calabozo
and then be released. The officials wouldn't think it much of a crime to try to steal an American trapper's horse.

Jacob's anger was cooling. He could not kill one so young. “Leave. Do it now, before I change my mind. If I ever see you again, I'll surely shoot you.”

The youth sprang in the direction of his horse. He didn't believe what the gringo trapper had said. It was a trick. He kept his eyes riveted on the American.

“No!” shouted Joaquin. “Kill him.” He had grabbed up the dead man's revolver. He waved it in the air to emphasize his cry.

The outlaw ran faster. He leaped upon the back of his
caballo
and spurred it savagely. The youth jerked a riding crop from the pommel of the saddle and furiously lashed his horse. The straining animal flung snow from under its driving hooves as it sped away.

“No! Don't let him escape,” screamed Otego. He pointed the pistol at the back of the racing figure and fired.

The bandit threw wide both arms. He held his seat for three strides, gradually leaning forward until his face lay in the mane of his mount. He slid sideways from the saddle, rolling and tumbling on the snowy earth.

Otego spoke to Tamarron in a low, apologetic voice. “You scared him and he ran. He could never let us live and tell of his cowardice. He would have returned with other
banditos
and harmed my family. I had to kill him.”

“Maybe so, but I don't feel good about the shooting.” Jacob swiftly strode off toward the house. A moment later he reemerged with his saddle and a bale of furs.

Otego hastened to help Jacob load the packhorses. When they had finished, Otego spoke to Jacob in a low voice. “Señor Tamarron, may I have one of their horses? Mine is of no use.”

“Take them both. And all of their money, if they have any. I want nothing that belonged to them.”

Jacob climbed astride his pony. He glanced at the woman and little boy in the doorway. Far removed from the safety of Santa Fe, the small family was striving to survive. Realizing that, some of his distaste for the young bandit's death was washed away. In reality Otego had a greater reason to kill than Jacob. Otego had a wife and son to protect. Jacob had killed for a horse.

* * *

Tamarron traveled along the top of the winding lava canyon of the Rio Grande. By noon the storm clouds had risen far into the sky. The sun shone, pale as a daytime moon, down through the high, thin mist.

In the afternoon the last traces of the storm ran away across the heavens, leaving behind a blue-domed world swept clean by the arctic wind. The wonderful sun burned down, and Jacob felt revived, growing stronger, like a bug or a crawling thing after a frost.

All around him the warm rays of the sun melted the snow and sucked up the moisture. Already the white covering had turned shallow, and there were bare spots on the south-facing slopes.

Jacob veered from the great chasm of the Rio Grande and took a course southeast. He reached the valley of the Rio Tesuque. On the riffles, the river ice was thawed, and the water ran black and swift.

Jacob crested the last range of hills and gazed down on the two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Mexican city of Santa Fe. The town consisted of a gathering of brown-and-white adobe buildings four streets wide that strung for a mile and a quarter along both sides of the Santa Fe River. The town had a population of approximately eight thousand.

The tall, high-steepled church, La Parroquia, east of the broad central plaza, dominated all structures, even the long, single-storied Palace of the Governors. Dwarfed by the distance, the tiny figures of men, horses, and oxen could be seen moving on San Francisco Street, the main thoroughfare. Wood smoke rose from hundreds of chimneys, then bent and went off with the wind.

Jacob sat his horse in the sunshine and looked at the town, so isolated from other sites of civilization. He would begin his search there. He would be a persistent man in this endeavor. If he should be unsuccessful in Santa Fe after a fair attempt, he would ride to Saint Joseph or Independence.

Jacob felt the warmth in the low river valley. The snow from the last storm was already retreating up the hillsides. His fur hat and long fur coat were rolled up into a bundle and stowed in one of the packs. He donned his battered cloth hat and hurried down toward the town with his horses. He believed the forest and mountains were forever gone behind him.

* * *

Tamarron rode slowly along San Francisco Street, a narrow avenue hemmed in by adobe buildings. Most of the structures were jammed tightly against their neighbors, sharing a common wall. The side streets were even more restricted, and there were almost no alleys.

A woodcutter leading a long string of burros passed Jacob and continued on in the direction of the wooded hills. A meat wagon, with two freshly slaughtered sheep hanging on hooks, was halted in front of a residence. The butcher and a housewife were haggling over the price of a slab of red meat.

At the hitch rails of the stores, offices, and drinking and eating establishments, a dozen or so horses stood on the muddy street, heads down, half asleep in the mild winter sun. On the left side, leaning against the front of a dry-goods store, were two vaqueros, Mexican cowboys, in tightly fitted leather pants, intricately decorated jackets, leather boots, and large-brimmed hats with high, peaked crowns.

Holding possession of a large sunny section of ground near a two-story cantina on the edge of the plaza, eight American trappers lazed about. With their long, shaggy hair, beards, and fringed buckskin outfits, the mountain men looked like half-tamed wolves. No rifles or pistols were in sight, but each man carried a long-bladed skinning knife on his belt.

Other trappers had already arrived in Santa Fe before Jacob. For the men to be here while the pelts of the animals were still prime on the snow-covered mountains meant that they had encountered trouble—Indian attacks, thieves, or poor trapping.

A Mexican woman, holding the tail of her dress up to keep it out of the mud, crossed the street ahead of Jacob. She ignored him. Three boys ran by kicking a muddy ball.

Jacob aimed his pony toward the trappers. They would know the price of pelts and which buyer was paying the highest dollar. If they had been in Santa Fe a few days, they could tell him the latest news of the outside world. After five months of being isolated in the mountains, he wanted to quickly gather information about Texas, the eastern states, and Mexico.

One of the trappers, a skinny man, spoke to a large fellow near him and pointed at Tamarron. They both moved a few paces away from the wall of the cantina.

The smaller man shouted out a greeting. “Jacob Tamarron, you damn rascal, what are you doing in Santa Fe so early?”

“Hello, Tim,” Jacob called back. He smiled broadly. It felt good to meet an old acquaintance. He slid from his horse, dropping the reins to ground-tie the animal, and came to meet the two men.

“Where's Daniel?” asked Tim.

“The Arapaho killed him a few days back,” replied Jacob. He felt his sorrow anew.

“That's too bad, Jacob. A man doesn't often find a partner good as Daniel. But he lived longer than most do.”

Tim gestured at the man beside him. “I'd like you to meet Deek Craner. I knew him up in the Teton country. Him and me partnered up together this past winter.”

“Hello, Deek,” Jacob said, and shook hands with both men. “How long have you fellows been in Santa Fe?”

“We came down about four days ago when the weather turned warm,” replied Tim.

“How's fur prices?” asked Jacob.

“Beaver is fetching only a dollar a pound and not worth skinning. It's not like the old days when a pelt brought three to four dollars a pound. Silk's almost completely replaced beaver for men's hats and has killed the market. But fur that's suited for the coats of Eastern ladies and gents is bringing a goodly price. The hell of it is, those kinds of animals are a damn sight smarter, and harder to trap than beaver.”

Deek nodded agreement with his comrade's words. “And a man has to run a twenty-mile trap line to catch enough critters to make a couple of small-sized bales of pelts.”

“That's why few young fellows are trapping today,” said Jacob, glancing around at the group of Americans. He saw only two men who didn't have gray in their beards. “Who's buying skins?”

Tim answered. “There are two buyers in town. I suspect there'll be more later. But right now there's a representative of the Tolleson brothers of St. Joe, and another man named Randolph from Cincinnati. They do a little bidding against each other and that helps keep the price at a reasonable level.”

“Good, where can I find them?”

“Randolph has an office on the plaza across from the Governor's Palace,” said Tim. “The Tolleson man has a room at La Fonda. But he's a gambling man and most often can be found at one of the card parlors.”

“What's the charge for Mexican customs tax?”

“Two bits a pelt,” Tim answered.

“Damnation, that's high. Up a nickel from last year,” Jacob said.

“Yep. And Governor Armijo and his soldiers are tough about collecting it. Better check in at the Custom House first thing and get your
guia
stamp.”

“Well, two bits' tax or not, I'm going to sell my furs,” said Jacob. “I'll buy you and Deek a drink later on this evening.”

“That's a fine offer,” said Tim. “We'll be around somewhere close.”