Falconer's Law

by Jason Manning

  "Are your steps bent for the Green River, Hugh?" asked Rube. The Green River was the site of this year's rendezvous, as it had been the year before.

  Falconer nodded. "I've got a few plews to sell."

  Eben's gaze strayed to the packs that Falconer had removed from the sawbuck saddle strapped to the back of his second horse, and against which the mountain man was now leaning, and he wondered if those beaver really had been shot through the eyes.

  "We fetched six dollars for a prime plew two years ago," said Rube, "and four last year. If they bring three this year I'll consider myself one lucky cuss. Hellfire, Hugh, 'fore long we'll have to pay just to get shed of the fur."

  "They were shinin' times, Rube," said Falconer. "But you're right. They're about over now."

  Rube stared morosely into the fire for a moment, puffing furiously on his pipe, and Eben thought that maybe he had been hoping against hope that Falconer would have some news that might contradict the notion that the fur trade was on its last legs.

  " 'Member that scrape we had with them Bloods down on the Stinking Water, Hugh?" asked the old-timer suddenly.

  "I recollect."

  Rube glanced over at Eben. "Reckon mebbe I done told you about it already. If so, stop me. I was trappin' with a few of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company boys, back in '32 it was. There was Bob Thompson and that pork eater name of Surrett and a couple others. That was the year the Blackfeet were really on their hind legs, and we was keepin' our eyes skinned, but a war party Injuned-up on us anyhow, and we was in a bad enough fix, our backsides to a river too deep to cross. The Injuns tried to rush us, but we shot 'em to hell, though Thompson got thrown cold in the process. Then them red varmints got smarts and set fire to the grass. The wind was just right for 'em, and that fire was comin' straight for us. I'll tell you, Eben, this child thought he was gone beaver for sure.

  "But then ol' Hugh here shows up. He cuts a dead Injun pony open from stem to stern, puts a rope on the carcass, and rides a circle around our stronghold, draggin' the dead horse, which made as fine a firebreak as yore ever likely to see. Two Injuns tried to jump him, but he shot one through the heart and put his knife into the other right up to the 'Green River.' "

  A year ago Eben would not have understood half of what Rube had said, but now he knew that "up to the 'Green River'" meant thrusting a knife into someone to the hilt, where the words "Green River" were stamped into the blade by the manufacturer of the most popular knife among mountain men. He knew, too, that "thrown cold" meant killed, that a Blackfoot on his hind legs was one on a rampage, and that a "pork eater" referred to a French trapper.

  "That knocked the fight right out of them red rascals," continued Rube, "and we saw their tail feathers then. Yep, ol' Hugh saved our bacon that day, and that's the gospel truth. Don't never let nobody tell you otherwise."

  "I just happened along," said Falconer, "and had nothing better to do."

  Rube laughed, but his merriment was short-lived, as he resumed his moody contemplation of the imminent demise of a way of life he purely loved. He went back to staring into the dancing flames of the cookfire, and Eben could have sworn his one good eye was misting up.

  "What are we gonna do with ourselves, Hugh?" asked Rube. "Mebbe I'll take to scoutin' for the army. They'll be along, you know, them yellowlegs. Settlers are movin' west, and the army will have to protect 'em from the Injuns. I hate to think of it, hoss, but one day that valley yonder'll have a town smack in the middle of it, full of noise and stink, and there'll be roads and cornfields and lumber mills and such. When that happens these mountains won't be a fit place to live."

  "Nothing lasts," muttered Falconer, and somehow Eben knew he was thinking about the squaw named Touches the Moon when he said it.

  "What about you?" Rube asked Falconer. "What are yore plans?"

  "I'm thinking I want to see California."

  "California! By thunder, Hugh, there ain't no good way to even get to California from here. There's the tallest mountains, the hottest deserts, and the meanest damned Injuns betwixt you and California. An even iffen you get there, them Spaniards will like as not clean yore plow."

  "It's not Spanish anymore, Rube. Part of the Republic of Mexico now."

  "Makes no difference."

  "Still," said Falconer, "I'm giving some thought to going."

  "Alone?"

  "No. I'll want twenty or thirty good men, I reckon. Maybe I'll find some volunteers at rendezvous."

  Eben Nall's heart skipped a beat, for as he spoke of volunteers Falconer's dark gaze scanned the young man's face.

  "I'll go," blurted Eben. Rube gaped at him, and Eben hastily added, "Of course, I'll stick to my end of our bargain, Rube. You know that. I'm with you until we trade our plews."

  "No offense, boy, but you're still wet behind the ears. Hugh said he wanted . . ."

  "I know what he said." Eben did not want to hear Rube imply that he did not meet Falconer's qualifications for "a good man." He met Falconer's unfathomable gaze. "I'll go, if you'll have me, Mr. Falconer."

  "We'll see." Falconer put out his pipe, unrolled his blanket, and stretched out his long frame. In a moment he was asleep, embracing the Hawken mountain rifle as though it were his lover.

  "You're a damned fool, boy," whispered Rube.

  "Maybe so. What about you, Rube? Will you go along?"

  "Sounds like too much adventure for an old coon like me. Reckon me and Luck'll stay home. Now I'm gonna get some shut-eye. You take the first watch."

  Eben tried to stay alert and pay attention to the night around him, but fanciful images of golden California persistently distracted him. Huddled in his woolen Point blanket by the dying campfire, he thought of wine as red and potent as the lips of beautiful Mexican women whose cinnamon skin was as soft and warm as the California sun . . .

  Rube relieved him a few hours later, and Eben tried to sleep, but California dreams kept him awake until almost dawn. Many were the tales he had heard of California, but it had always seemed as far away, as unattainable, as the Orient.

  Finally he dozed off, awakening in time to hear Rube Holly say, "Keep yore powder dry, Hugh," and he rose from his blankets as Falconer rode out of camp on his wild-eyed shaggy mustang, leading the sturdy packhorse.

  "Why isn't he riding with us if he's going to rendezvous, same as us?" Eben asked.

  "He didn't tell me and I didn't ask."

  "Did he say anything else about . . . about California?"

  "He said he thought it'd be right fine to have you ride along. Which goes to show he ain't half as smart as I gave him credit for."

  Rube Holly was joshing, of course. Eben could see that. He saw something else, and it surprised him—Rube was looking at him as proudly as a father would at his son.

  Chapter 3

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF EBEN NALL

  July 4, 1837. Rendezvous! There never has been anything like it, and when it is gone for good there never will be again. Rube, Luck, and I arrived in the afternoon of Independence Day, but the trappers and traders who congregate here do not need an excuse to celebrate. Most of them have spent the year in solitude, or nearly so, and in a dangerous occupation besides. Now, for three weeks, they cut loose and howl. Rube, however, informs me that this fur fair is not at all like previous ones—it is subdued as a church social by comparison. There are fewer trappers with fewer plews to trade. And he was right about the price of fur. It has gone down to three dollars, and that for a prime plew.

  A missionary, Dr. Gray, has arrived, on his way to the country of the Flatheads, and accompanying him are four white women, who are also missionaries. They cause quite a stir, as most of these men have not seen a white woman in a month of Sundays. Also present is Sir William Drummond Stuart. He fought at the Battle of Waterloo, serving as an officer in the renowned Horse Guards, and has brought along his helmet and cuirass, which, he says, will protect him from Indian arrows. Little does he know that every Indian in this country will be hankering after that armor,
which makes him something of a marked man. He has also brought with him fine wines and brandy, hams and preserved meats, countless other delicacies, as well as a complete silver service. However, the others do not begrudge him these fineries, as he is the soul of generosity when it comes to sharing his bounty—everything except the silver service.

  Traveling with Sir William is Alfred Miller, a very talented artist. I am impressed by his watercolor sketches. He seems to dash them off so effortlessly. I especially like the one of Joe Meek, clad in Sir William's armor, parading around camp in a futile attempt to impress the lady missionaries. There is another I like very much, of Jim Bridger, mounted on his horse, on high ground looking down at this rendezvous on the banks of the Green River.

  Tonight the Delawares and the Shawnees performed a great war dance for the entertainment of Dr. Gray and the ladies. Some of the mountain men joined in, and much fun was had by all, except perhaps by Dr. Gray, who seemed taken aback by the savage fervor of the scene . . .

  The skin lodges of the trappers and Indians extended for a mile along the banks of the river in the vicinity of Horse Creek, on the rim of a wide, grassy plain hemmed in by the forested foothills of the great gray granite peaks. Despite Rube Holly's glum observation that this rendezvous compared poorly to previous fur fairs, Eben Nall was impressed by the gathering. He calculated there were about two hundred mountain men and at least that many friendly Indians present.

  Of the latter, the Flatheads, Snakes, Nez Perces, and Shoshones were represented, in addition to the Delawares and the Shawnees. The last two tribes had once been great nations in the eastern forests, and the Shawnees had proved worthy foes as they fought the whites for a quarter of a century to keep their homeland in what was now the states of Ohio and Kentucky. Their lands lost, their tribe decimated by war and epidemic, a handful of Shawnee men had wandered west to ply the trapper's trade. Like the Delawares, they had become dependable allies of the white man.

  The first priority upon arrival at rendezvous was trading plews for possibles. The traders had brought their wagonloads of goods across the plains from St. Louis. "Mountain prices" were exorbitant, but few complained. The journey west was a hazardous one for the trader; he faced ruin if he lost his load to disaster, natural or otherwise. A pint of coffee beans cost two dollars, as did a pint of sugar. A plug of chewing tobacco ran two dollars as well, while a pint of alcohol was priced at four dollars. Other commodities included guns, powder and shot, traps, blankets, pots and pans, knives, flint, and cheap trinkets for the squaws. The trapper paid for what he needed with the "hairy bank notes" he had spent arduous months harvesting from the mountain ponds.

  Eben wanted to replace his old Harpers Ferry flintlock with a better weapon. Last winter the stock had been shattered, and though it was mended passably well with a rawhide wrap, put on wet to shrink tight as it dried, Eben figured he would need a more reliable gun if he was going to join Hugh Falconer on the great California adventure. A Hawken Percussion was not available, so he settled for a Kentucky rifle, a Lancaster. He did not come out too badly on the deal, as he managed to trade the Harpers Ferry, along with powder and shot and a Nor'west blanket, to a Flathead Indian in exchange for an Appaloosa mare—steelcast gray with four white stockings and black spots on a white rump.

  Proud of himself, Eben showed the horse to Rube, who checked the animal over and pronounced it sound.

  "Ordinarily," said Rube, "I'd say you got yoreself a real bargain, lad. But that Injun wouldn't never have traded this mare lessen he figured on either stealin' it or winnin' it back."

  A short time later the Flathead found Eben and, using broken English, challenged him to a horse race. Eben wasn't interested, but the Flathead insisted.

  "Won't do to turn him down," remarked Rube.

  Eben didn't much like his chances of winning a horse race. He was no master equestrian, not by a long shot. But he realized Rube Holly was right. If he backed down from the Indian's challenge, the whole camp would know by nightfall that he lacked backbone. Eben agreed to the contest. The winner would take the loser's horse. The Flathead gloated as he went away. Clearly he expected the Appaloosa mare to be back in his possession before very long.

  The word was soon out—there would be a horse race. A day would not go by at rendezvous without at least one, and there was no shortage of trappers eager to make a wager. Rube Holly took a stroll and came back an hour later to inform Eben that the white trappers were betting on him almost to the man. Eben was aghast at the news.

  "Rube, they shouldn't," he moaned. "I'm going to lose."

  Rube Holly frowned. "You arter not talk that way, boy."

  "You know I don't stand a chance. I'm not half the horseman that Indian is."

  "You cain't never tell what might happen," said Rube, and he moved on to help Luck with the lean-to she was erecting.

  Eben tried to walk off his misery, but whimsical fate bent his steps to the river's edge, where some Nez Perces were putting on an exhibition of horsemanship. They thundered hither and yon at full gallop, one standing on the back of his pony, another leaning over precariously to snatch a jug of whiskey placed on the ground. Two riding side by side switched horses several times in a hundred yards. The crowd congregated to watch this spectacle roared approval with each daring exploit. What made matters worse, from Eben's point of view, was the knowledge that the Nez Perces were likkered up. They were all so drunk they could scarcely stand on their own two feet, but they could still ride like the devil. Eben resigned himself to losing the gray Appaloosa. These people were born to ride—in his youth all he had ever ridden was a store counter.

  "Eben!"

  He turned to see his brother, Silas, pushing through the crowd.

  "Silas!" They hugged each other, then held one another at arm's length.

  "You've still got your hair!" laughed Silas.

  "You sound surprised."

  "I am. I figured the Injuns would make short work of you, brother."

  "I can take care of myself," said Eben resentfully.

  Silas threw back his head and laughed again.

  They were brothers, but different as right from wrong. Both were slim and wiry, of medium height, but Silas was towheaded and devilishly handsome, while Eben's hair was a dull brown and his features rather plain. Folks who knew swore Silas Nall got his looks from his mother, who was pretty and vivacious and clever, while Eben closely resembled his father, the moody, stolid Elijah. Where Eben was reserved, Silas was outgoing. Caution was Eben's long suit, while Silas was the impulsive ne'er-do-well. As a child Silas had always had a knack for getting into trouble—and a knack for wiggling out from under it later. Eben envied him, because heads turned when Silas Nall came into view, while hardly anyone ever noticed his brother.

  Coming west together, they had gone their separate ways the previous fall. Eben partnered up with Rube Holly, a free trapper, while Silas signed on with a brigade affiliated with the American Fur Company—a brigade bound for beaver country perilously close to Blackfoot territory. Eben, of course, had decided to play it safe with Rube, whose goal first and foremost was staying alive.

  "Did you have Indian trouble, Silas?"

  "It was the Injuns had the trouble. See?"

  For the first time Eben noticed the pair of scalp-locks dangling from his brother's belt.

  "My God!" he exclaimed. "Why on earth do you wear them?"

  "Why shouldn't I? I earned them. That's a pair of red heathens who learned the hard way not to mess with Silas Nall. I reckon I'm an honest-to-God mountain man now, huh?"

  "If it takes killing an Indian to become a mountain man, I guess so."

  "Don't talk down that long nose of yours like Pa always done, little brother. Now listen. I hear you're in a horse race with a Flathead named Sixkiller."

  "Sixkiller? Is that his name?"

  "Yep. They say he's meaner than hell with the hide off. Now, all the trappers are betting on you, Eben. They're fools, 'cause they can't bring themselves to
admit that a red savage can best a white man at anything."

  "What do you mean, they're fools?"

  "I mean you're bound to lose."

  Eben knew it was so. Still, he couldn't help but be offended.

  "Me, I'm betting my whole poke on Sixkiller," said Silas, pitching his voice low in a conspirator's whisper.

  "Thanks a lot," said Eben dryly.

  "Hell, don't get your hackles up, Eben. I'll cut you in. All you got to do is make sure you lose. Just in case, by some miracle, you get the upper hand."

  "I can't do that."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "A lot of these men stand to lose big if I don't win."

  "Who cares about them?"

  "I've got to at least try. They're counting on me."

  "I'm your brother, Eben. What about me?"

  Adamant, Eben shook his head. "I won't do it, Silas. I can't."

  Naked malice twisted Silas Nall's features—but only for an instant. His expression smoothed out, and he forced an oily smile.

  "It doesn't matter anyway," he drawled. "You're going to lose. You always lose, little brother."

  With that, Silas turned on his heel and walked away.

  Chapter 4

  Approximately a half mile from the camp's outskirts, two lances were driven into the ground, side by side. The contestants were to ride out, take one lance, and return with it to the starting point. The first one back with a lance was the winner. These were the only rules.

  It seemed to Eben Nall as though the whole camp was gathered to watch his ignominious defeat at the hands of Sixkiller. Evidently the Flathead had as few doubts as Eben regarding the outcome. He strutted like a rooster, cheered on by a handful of his fellow tribesmen. Eben studiously ignored him. He tried to ignore the crowd, too. He couldn't bring himself to look any of them squarely in the eye. They were relying on him and he was going to let them down. After that, no one would rely on him again.

  As he and Sixkiller were about to mount up, Rube Holly arrived with, to Eben's chagrin, none other than Hugh Falconer. Falconer was absolutely the last person Eben wanted to see. The man had thought enough of him to extend an invitation to join the California expedition—no doubt that would change after this race.