The Shadow Man (6 page)

People strolled unhurriedly beneath the shed-like roofs that extended out from every building. Others stood in groups talking in a neighborly way in the sunshine. A dozen children ran and played among the trees bordering the square. Their happy cries rose above all the other sounds.

In front of a gambling parlor advertising dice, faro, and monte, a young juggler was trying to draw a crowd with his amateurish tossing of four balls. Men came and went through the door of the building without giving him a second look. Near the southeast corner of the square in front of La Fonda, a ragged beggar called out to passersby in a wheedling voice pleading for pennies.

The sound of a guitar skillfully played came from a cantina. Jacob had heard no music for months. He slowed and listened to the pleasant tune until it ended.

He entered the customhouse and had his furs counted and the number recorded. A second copy of the paper was drawn up by hand, stamped with the government seal, and given to him with the
guia,
a clearance to sell in Santa Fe.

Jacob paid the tariff and left. He moved around the plaza looking for the office of the fur buyer.

* * *

Randolph knew the quality of fur and was a tough bargainer. Tamarron dickered patiently with him in a low voice.

He extracted only one pelt at a time from the bale. This he placed on the countertop in front of the buyer. They discussed the softness, density, and length of the hair of each skin, and dickered until they agreed upon a price. Then Randolph made a tally on a sheet of paper, and Tamarron brought out the next pelt.

Jacob had learned years ago that the fur buyer must never see more than one pelt at a time. Numerous pelts meant low prices.

The last skin in the bale was sold, and Randolph reached for the tally sheet.

“Wait,” said Tamarron. “I have a few more pelts.”

“Then bring them in,” directed Randolph, and laid down the paper and pencil.

Jacob went outside and returned with a second batch of pelts.

The sale went much faster because a standard price was evolving for skins of a particular quality and species. When the last one had been tallied, Randolph glanced at Tamarron.

“Is that the last of them?”

“Not quite,” replied Tamarron. “There is one more bundle.”

Randolph sat back in his chair and grinned. “Are you sure it's the last of them?”

The final dry skin was sold. The raw wolf pelts were sold for half price. Randolph made his computation. “The total is two thousand and fifteen dollars. Not bad for a winter's work.”

Tamarron was pleased with the price, but the fur represented the work of two men not one. “I've made twice that much money in the beaver days.”

“That was before I started buying fur,” said Randolph. He brought out a heavy leather bag and began to count gold pieces out on the countertop.

Jacob entered the big general store of Andrew Dexter. He stopped and breathed the scores of odors rushing to escape out the open door. He teased his nose with the high aroma of cinnamon, pepper, dried apples, peaches, raisins, and cheese. A smile of anticipation crossed his face. There were many kinds of foods he wanted to sample.

Nodding a greeting to the clerk at the front counter, Tamarron walked toward the back of the building. He passed down a long aisle flanked with shelving that reached to the ceiling and was crammed with a hundred things for sale. He took a dried peach half from a cloth bag full of them and began to chew on it.

Against the rear wall of the establishment, a huge iron vault squatted on a thick stone foundation. Nearby, Andrew Dexter sat behind a wooden desk. He saw Tamarron and, with a smile, got up and came forward.

“Good to see you again, Jacob,” said the storekeeper, and held out his hand. “How long have you been in Santa Fe?”

“Hello, Andy,” said Jacob, shaking the offered hand.

“I came in a couple of hours ago.” Jacob liked the storekeeper. He held a choice location on the plaza and had a thriving business. The trappers swore by his honesty. Some trappers frugally saved part of their hard-earned fur money, and most of them left it with Dexter for safekeeping. The merchant was also a moneylender. He would, for a fee, manage the trappers' savings, lending it out at interest.

“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.