Falconer's Law

by Jason Manning

  Don Carlos turned to Falconer. "I will get my daughter back," he said. "And every man who was involved in her abduction will die. I promise you that."

  He left the room.

  "Lieutenant," said Don Luis, with a heavy heart, "take as many men as you think you will require and bring Señor Falconer's men to Monterey."

  "You're making a mistake," warned Falconer.

  Don Luis ignored him. "Bring them, Lieutenant. One way or the other."

  "I will surprise them at dawn tomorrow," said Ramirez. He executed a snappy salute and also left the room.

  "I am sorry, Señor Falconer," said the governor-general. "But I believe this is best for all concerned. I wish to prevent more bloodshed."

  "You're going about it the wrong way."

  "Your men will be protected by the army. If I do not do this thing, Don Carlos will ride against them with all his vaqueros. Many men would die."

  "But who is going to protect your army from my men, Don Luis?"

  Don Luis smiled. "I hope we can work together to keep the peace."

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "Not in so many words. But I would prefer that you remain here until your men arrive. Then I will find a safe place for all of you to stay."

  "Stay until when?"

  "That I cannot say."

  "I want to see Maguire."

  "Of course. He is being held here, in this building. I will have him brought up."

  "What about Silas Nall?"

  "I do not know this man."

  Falconer nodded. Don Luis went to the door and spoke to the guard standing outside.

  "Señor Maguire will be here in a few moments," he said, returning to the table and sinking with a heavy sigh into the chair. "This is a very bad business. Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had never come to California."

  "What's done is done. What will happen to Maguire?"

  "He will have a fair trial, I can assure you. Considering the evidence against him, I have little doubt he will be found guilty and condemned to death."

  Falconer went to the window. He was standing there when two soldiers led Doc Maguire into the room. Only then did Falconer turn. Maguire wore heavy shackles on his wrists and ankles. His clothes were torn, his face battered and bruised. When he saw Falconer his swollen lips curled into a crooked grin.

  "Thank Christ you're here, Hugh. Now at least there's somebody who will listen to my side of the story."

  "I'm listening."

  "It was self-defense. I swear on my mother's grave, it was, Hugh. The wench was trying to rob me. I woke up and caught her red-handed, and that's when she tried to stick a knife between my ribs."

  "You will have an opportunity to tell your story in court," said Don Luis. By his tone it was apparent he did not believe a word Maguire was saying.

  "In court? Hugh, you're not going to let them kill me, are you? We're supposed to stick together, through thick or thin, right?"

  "Not much I can do, Doc."

  Maguire held up his hands and rattled the chains that held his wrists together. "This is sure no way for a mountain man to live."

  Falconer stepped closer to the Irishman. "You killed that woman in England, didn't you, Doc?"

  Maguire's crooked grin faded just a bit. On the verge of sticking to the old lie, he glimpsed something in Falconer's dark gaze and changed his mind.

  "Yes," he said softly. "Yes, I surely did. She told me our affair was over. She was through with me. As though I were just some servant she could use and then dispose of. It rubbed me the wrong way, you know? But this time it was self-defense, Hugh. You've got to believe me."

  "You gave me your word. I put my trust in you. Now the life of every man in the brigade is at risk."

  "I'm bloody sorry . . ."

  "I'm just as much to blame as you."

  "No, Hugh, don't blame yourself. You're a damn fine booshway. It's been an honor and a privilege to ride with you. I'm the one. I broke the flamin' rules . . ."

  "I broke my own rule. Never trust anybody."

  "There's an old Irish saying, 'Put your trust in God, my boys, but keep your powder dry.' "

  "You broke your word to me, Doc."

  "All I'm asking for is justice."

  " 'Though justice be thy plea, consider this, that in the course of justice none of us shall see salvation.' "

  "Shakespeare." Maguire chuckled. "I swear, Hugh Falconer, you're a strange one . . ."

  Falconer drove the knife into Maguire, all the way up to the "Green River," just below the sternum, then tilted it so that the blade pierced the Irishman's heart.

  A look of surprise frozen on his face, Maguire gasped and fell dead.

  "Madre de Dios!" exclaimed Don Luis, standing up so fast that he knocked the chair over.

  Recovering quickly, the soldiers pounced on Falconer, driving him back against the table. He did not resist, dropping the bloody knife.

  Staring in horror at Maguire's corpse, the governor-general struggled to keep his dinner down. When he was sure he would not humiliate himself by puking, he collected himself and started for the door, as dignified as possible, carefully stepping around the dead man.

  "Put him in irons," said Don Luis.

  Chapter 29

  From a hill a quarter of a mile away, Gus Jenkins and Rube Holly watched the detachment of soldiers approach the trees where the brigade had been camped up until only a few hours earlier.

  "How many you reckon, Gus?" asked Rube. "My eye ain't as sharp as it used to be. Hell, I'll prob'ly be seein' better out of the glass one than I will the real one 'fore too much longer."

  "Must be fifty of them," replied Jenkins grimly.

  "Reckon they kin read sign?"

  "We'll find out in a few minutes."

  The soldiers were roaming through the woods. Rube Holly figured they hadn't come on a social call. He slid an approving glance sideways at Gus Jenkins, belly down in the tall grass beside him. Behind the hill were ten men, including Sixkiller and French Pete Bordeaux. The rest of the brigade was miles away by now, thanks to a bad feeling Jenkins had experienced this morning around daybreak.

  "Think we'd better pull up stakes," he had told Rube. "Hugh would be back by now if he was coming back."

  "You mean we're gonna ride into Monterey and fetch him back?" Rube Holly was getting on in years, but that didn't mean he didn't hanker after a little excitement every now and then.

  "I mean nothing of the kind. We just move camp."

  "What fer?"

  "Because I'd feel better if we did," said Jenkins, a little testy. "How's that for a reason?"

  Rube Holly had just shrugged, being somewhat mystified.

  Now he could see why Gus Jenkins had a reputation for being one of the best booshways in the business. He had good instincts and was wise enough to listen to them. Those Californios yonder were looking for trouble. It sure didn't take fifty of them to drop by and say howdy. Without Gus Jenkins and his sixth sense for danger there would be some leadslinging right now.

  "What do you reckon happened to Hugh?" asked Holly.

  "I'd say they've got him locked up—if he's still above snakes."

  Rube scowled. "If those bastards have done for him there'll be pure hell to pay."

  "Hugh's orders were clear. My job is to get the brigade as far from here as possible."

  "We're just gonna run out and leave Hugh to float his stick alone? Is that what you're sayin', Gus?"

  "That's what he wanted."

  "Well, I'd purely like to see how you get the rest of the boys to go along with that."

  Jenkins grimaced. It would not be easy to sell that bill of goods to the brigade. He knew as much.

  "Doesn't look like I'll have to," he muttered, as the soldiers, back in a nice neat column of twos, began to ride toward their vantage point.

  "Guess that answers my question," observed Rube Holly wryly. "They kin read sign."

  Jenkins sighed. Clearly those soldiers had been dispatched to captu
re or kill the brigade. There could be no other reason for such a force. Which meant some shooting was inevitable, regardless of Hugh Falconer's best efforts to prevent such a thing from happening.

  "Come on," he said, and crawled off the rim of the hill before rising to trot down the slope and join the others. Rube Holly was right on his heels.

  "Fifty soldiers," said Jenkins, mounting his horse. "Coming straight for us."

  French Pete Bordeaux glanced at the men to either side of him. Then, grinning broadly, he drew his rifle from its horn strap.

  "Only fifty? That's just five for each of us, my friends."

  "Let's try to discourage them before we start killing them," said Jenkins. By his tone of voice it was clear he did not expect the soldiers to be easily discouraged.

  He led the way to the top of the hill, checked his horse, and motioned for the others to spread out. The column of soldiers was only a few hundred yards away now. When he saw the mountain men arrayed along the spine of the hill, their backs to the morning sun, the officer in front of the column raised an arm, signaling the column to halt.

  "Just turn around and go home," muttered Gus Jenkins under his breath.

  The officer rode forward, flanked by two men, a sergeant-major and a standard-bearer.

  " 'Pears they want to parlay," said Rube Holly.

  "Keep the rest of the men here," said Jenkins. "And for God's sake, no shooting."

  As he rode down the hill, Jenkins mused that he and Hugh Falconer had been saying "no shooting," or some variation thereof, till they were blue in the face. And all to no avail, in the end.

  He didn't get too close—just close enough to talk to the officer without having to shout. Now he recognized the man. It was Ramirez, the levelheaded lieutenant who had accompanied Don Carlos Chagres and the vaqueros to the brigade's camp yesterday morning.

  "Where is Falconer?" asked Jenkins.

  "I am the bearer of bad news, I am afraid," said Ramirez. He seemed genuinely sorry. "Señor Falconer is under arrest."

  "Under arrest? For what? What's the charge against him?"

  "Murder."

  "I don't believe it. Hugh Falconer would never kill a man that didn't need killing."

  "He murdered one of your own. A man named Maguire. Maguire, in turn, had been arrested for the murder of a young woman in Monterey."

  This was a lot for Gus Jenkins to absorb in a single dose. "I wouldn't necessarily call it murder, Lieutenant, what Falconer did. You see, he's our booshway. That makes him the brigade's judge, jury, and executioner. Doc Maguire broke Falconer's law. So he had to pay. Hugh just saved you folks the trouble, sounds like to me."

  Ramirez nodded. "I understand. But, in the process, he broke our law. And he must be punished."

  Jenkins grimly twisted in the saddle and scanned the top of the hill bristling with mountain men.

  "Lieutenant," he said, "for the sake of peace, turn Hugh Falconer loose and let us ride out of here."

  "I cannot. I am sorry. I have my orders. The governor-general has instructed me to bring all of you back to Monterey. This is for your own protection. The abduction of Sombra Chagres and the murder of the other woman has the people up in arms. You will be in the army's custody."

  Jenkins shook his head. "Won't float with the others."

  "I must carry out my orders."

  "I reckon you'll allow me to rejoin my men."

  "Of course."

  "Good luck, Lieutenant."

  "Buena suerte, Señor."

  Jenkins jerked his horse around and rode back to the top of the hill.

  "Get ready, boys," he said. "All hell's fixing to break loose."

  "Ain't they purty," said one of the mountain men with Gus Jenkins on the hill. Then he hawked and spat.

  The soldiers were switching from column formation to a single line, with the left-hand troops turning to the left and the right-hand to the right, parting ways where Lieutenant Ramirez sat his horse, flanked by the sergeant-major and the standard-bearer. When all the men were in line, Ramirez shouted a curt order and they turned their horses as one to face the hill. Then the lieutenant drew his saber. Sunlight flashed off fifty blades as the cavalrymen followed suit, holding the weapons at shoulder rest.

  "The fools," said French Pete contemptuously. "They bring knives to a gunfight."

  Gus Jenkins was not amused. In his opinion, French Pete and the others gravely underestimated Ramirez and his troops. The lieutenant seemed to be a very capable commander, and the men he led today were obviously well trained.

  "Dismount, boys," said Jenkins.

  He swung down just as Ramirez swept the saber forward, and the whole Mexican line surged forward on galloping horses. Jenkins braced his rifle across the bow of his saddle and drew a bead on the lieutenant. Made sense to chop the head off the snake. Kill the brave ones first; they led the others. But Jenkins couldn't pull the trigger. His heart wasn't in this business in the first place, and he particularly did not want to be the one to drop Ramirez. So he switched to the burly sergeant-major riding beside Ramirez, fired, and saw his target somersault backward off his horse. No doubt just as brave a man as the lieutenant, mused Jenkins bleakly as he reloaded. But at least I did not know his name.

  More rifles spoke along the crest of the hill. More soldiers toppled from their horses. But the rest of the cavalrymen kept coming. As the middle of the line charged straight up the grassy slope, the two ends began to swing around to enclose the knot of mountain men on the rim. All the buckskinners got off a second shot, and eight more soldiers were plucked from their saddles, dead or wounded. Those remaining closed in, and the fight became hand to hand.

  Jenkins managed to reload a third time. Crouched, he fired at a soldier looming over him with saber raised. The soldier slipped sideways off his horse, shot through the chest. Another one tried to ride Jenkins down. Jenkins blocked this one's saber stroke by using the empty rifle like a club. The soldier's horse carried him past. Jenkins pulled a pistol from his belt and shot the man in the back.

  Turning to see French Pete fall beneath the bloodied blades of two soldiers, Jenkins dispensed with his empty guns, whipped his Green River hunting knife from its sheath, and took off running, an Indian war whoop on his lips. He launched himself at one of French Pete's killers and carried him bodily out of the saddle. Before they hit the ground Jenkins had ripped the man open from sternum to crotch. As he rose, a saber slashed his arm to the bone. The impact knocked him off his feet. Jenkins rolled to escape the flashing hooves of the soldier's horse. The soldier aimed a pistol at his head. The pistol spat orange flame and Jenkins winced. But the bullet merely plucked at the shoulder of his deerskin shirt, barely grazing the skin beneath. An instant later the soldier plunged to the ground. As his horse galloped away riderless, Sixkiller appeared out of the powder smoke haze and, with a savage cry, fell upon the dying man to lift his scalp.

  Jenkins got to his feet, clutching his wounded arm, dizzy from shock and the loss of blood. Disoriented, he needed a moment to realize that the soldiers were no longer swarming the hill.

  Rube Holly appeared beside him. "It's Cotton Phillips and Bluefeather and the rest of the boys!" crowed the old-timer. "They come back to save our bacon."

  Peering north, Jenkins saw that it was so. The rest of the brigade was coming on at a mad gallop. To the southwest, the remnants of the detachment were making a run for distant Monterey.

  Holly applied a kerchief to Jenkins's arm as a tourniquet, hoping to staunch the flow of blood. As he worked, Jenkins bleakly surveyed the battleground. It amazed him that so much carnage could be wrought in such a brief span of time. How long had the fight lasted? Two minutes? Maybe three?

  Only he, Rube Holly, Sixkiller, and one other mountain man were left standing. Twenty-eight soldiers lay dead or dying. Several horses had also been slain.

  Jenkins searched for, and was dismayed to find, Lieutenant Ramirez among the casualties. The officer had been gutshot during the melee on the hilltop. He
lay, gazing calmly at the blue California sky. Jenkins knelt beside him, and in a glance knew there was nothing he could do to save this man.

  "I'm right sorry it had to come to this," said Jenkins.

  "Will you hear my confession, señor?"

  Jenkins was taken aback. "But I'm no priest . . ." The plea in the lieutenant's eyes cut his protest short. "Sure I will."

  But Ramirez did not have time to unburden his soul. He convulsed, and a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes took on the glaze of death. Jenkins gently closed them and said a silent prayer, hoping that it would suffice.

  Chapter 30

  Since he could not be certain that the soldiers were gone for good, or if they would return with reinforcements and a vengeance, Gus Jenkins did not linger long on the field of battle. Taking their dead with them, the brigade rode north, leaving the bodies of the Californios where they lay. Jenkins figured such brave men deserved a decent burial, but most of the other mountain men were not of like mind. Besides, there was no time to waste in digging graves. Jenkins could only hope the Californios would retrieve their dead before the buzzards came to feast on the remains.

  His wound made the ride a nightmare of agony for Jenkins, but he carried on, stoic and without complaint. They stayed in their saddles most of the day, stopping only when night had thrown its dark cloak across the land. By then Jenkins was only half conscious. They had to lift him gently off his horse and lay him out on some blankets spread over the cold ground. Rube Holly cauterized the wound with gunpowder set ablaze. Jenkins passed out. He missed the burial of the six dead trappers. Cotton Phillips broke out his well-worn Bible, but he didn't read from it; the ex-slave spoke the passages from memory.

  Jenkins came to the following morning, feeling like he might live after all. Rube Holly quipped that he was just about the only man in the brigade who had gotten any sleep. Everybody else had kept their eyes peeled and rifles handy, expecting pursuit and another attack. But there did not appear to be any pursuit. The Nez Perce, Bluefeather, had ridden out on a scouting foray before daybreak. He returned a little while later to report seeing no sign of any soldiers.