Conversation with a Trapper

A day’s ride from the Rocky Mountains, Nicolas May came upon two pack mules hitched to a snag in a wide cottonwood bottom.  He rode beyond the mules and watered his horse in a shallow creek threading though tall grass.

The mules could not be alone.

Nicolas stationed his horse in the dappled shade alongside the creek and instinctively strode upstream following close to the sparkling water.  Shortly, he found an old man, garbed mostly in tattered leather, wading in the creek.

The old man smiled broadly through a thick, gray beard.  He nodded at Nicolas.

“No fish in this water,” Nicolas called out.  “Not that I seen.”

“Ain’t lookin’ fer fish.”  The old man smiled again.  “Guess this is one-a them compromisin’ positons.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m lookin’ fer purty rocks.”

“Gold?”

“No, sir.  Jest purty rocks.  Jest like them little boys do.”

Nicolas shrugged.  “I ain’t one to judge, ya.”  He watched the old man wade to the bank.  Arriving beside Nicolas, the old man stomped off as much water as he could.  Nicolas took the opportunity to introduce himself.  “Name is Nick May,” he said.

The old man offered a sideways glance.  “Jimmy Hornbach,” he said.   “Pleased to be meetin’ ya.”

“I know that name.  You’re the trapper.  You been in this country for a long while.  Longer’n just about anybody.”

“Been a spell,” admitted the old man.  “Got me some pemmican on a mule if youz intru-stud in some.”

Nicolas and the old trapper shared a meal.  They spoke.  After eating, they washed up in the creek.  Watching the sun pour red and orange layers into the clouds overtop the mountains, Nicolas suggested he stay at the campsite for the night.

“Seems right,” agreed Jimmy.

Jimmy struck a fire.  The two men settled around the swaying flames as darkness seeped into all the rugged features around them.

“I ain’t a trapper no more,” Jimmy told Nicolas at some uncertain point.  “Trappin’ is all about killin’ animals.  I sorta lost my lust fer that.  Fer the last few months, I jest been pokin’ ‘round.”

“What do mean by pokin’ around?”

“I guess I’m becomin’ a ferret in my thinkin’.  Ferrets is always busy doin’ nothin’ in pertic-a-lure.  They run around and poke at stuff.”  Jimmy tugged at his beard, smiled.

“Not much profit in that,” remarked Nicolas.

“No, there ain’t,” Jimmy said somewhat wistfully.  “Truth is…my time here under the stars is almost done.  And they is one last thing I’m lookin’ fer.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m lookin’ fer a trap.  A pertic-a-lure sort a trap.  In fair turnabout fer all my trapin’, I figure God hisself has a trap set for ol’ Jimmy.”  Jimmy paused for a moment, tugged at his bear again. “Got me a feelin’ the trap is purty close.  Ain’t nuss-i-sarily 'fraid of it neither.”

Nicolas May struggled to process what Jimmy had told had said.  Strangely, he did not doubt what the old man had said.  In the morning, if Jimmy headed south, Nick would ride north.    

—Mitchell Hegman