Falconer's Law

by Jason Manning

  Cotton Phillips apologized to Jenkins for disobeying his orders and bringing the rest of the brigade back in time for the fight. The men, he explained, had just not catered to the idea of leaving their ten companions behind while they ran like scared rabbits. They had been of one mind on turning around, and Cotton confessed that he had not tried very hard to talk them out of it.

  Jenkins called the men to gather round, and counted heads. There were seventeen men left in the brigade—but only sixteen were present and accounted for. Sixkiller, the Flathead warrior, had gone missing.

  "Who was the last to see Sixkiller?" he asked.

  The Flathead had last been seen late the previous day, during the long ride. Nobody could recall having noticed him splitting off from the group, but apparently that was exactly what he had done.

  "Damned red scoundrel prob'ly went back to harvest some more scalps," opined Rube Holly. "Get that rascal's blood up and he's likely to take on the whole danged Republic of Mexico."

  "I say we join him," said someone else. "Ain't fair that he gets to have all the fun."

  Jenkins shook his head. It was certain death for all of them if they stayed, but not one among these men seemed especially eager to keep running. The fact that six of their friends had lost their lives yesterday had not dampened their enthusiasm for trouble.

  "Hugh Falconer's been arrested by the authorities in Monterey," said Jenkins. "His orders were for us to hightail it out of California if that happened."

  The others muttered unhappily among themselves. Jenkins listened and watched and judged the collective mood.

  "I reckon it will be a cold day in hell before I can convince you boys to abide by our booshway's orders," he sighed.

  "You hit that one right on the mark," said Rube Holly.

  "I don't cotton to bein' run out of no place with my tail 'twixt my legs," growled another mountain man.

  "And I won't leave Falconer to rot in some hole with iron on his leg," declared a third.

  Several others vocalized their agreement with this sentiment.

  "Okay," said Jenkins. "But we can't do him any good by getting ourselves thrown cold. We have to figure out what to do. Can't just ride into Monterey bold as brass and start shooting up the place. They'd make short work of us if we were to be so foolheaded."

  "Iffen you got any ideas," said Holly, "we're all ears."

  "I say two or three of us try to sneak in, dressed up like the locals, and see if we can't cut Falconer loose."

  Every man present eagerly spoke up to volunteer.

  "Does anybody else besides me speak some Spanish?" asked Jenkins.

  A man named Taggart stepped forward. "I went down to Santa Fe with Becknell in '21," he said. "Made the trip a few times after that. I was wet behind the ears back then, but I picked up a little of the lingo, and some of it stuck."

  "Good. You and I will go."

  "You said two or three," reminded Rube. "How about if I go along too?"

  "No. I want you to take over while I'm gone."

  "Me?" Rube was aghast. "Hellfire, Gus, I couldn't lead a thirsty horse to water. You know that."

  "You'll do fine. Taggart and I will go in. With any luck, we'll be able to pass ourselves off as locals."

  "And what do the rest of us do in the meantime?" asked Holly. "Twiddle our thumbs and sing songs?"

  "Just keep out of sight. Once we get Hugh out, we'll make a run for it."

  "Been meanin' to ask you 'bout that," said Holly, squinty-eyed. "I reckon it's been snowin' dang near ever' day up in them mountain passes since we come across the Sierra. We'd have to sprout wings and fly to get back over them mountains now."

  Jenkins nodded. "Figure we'll have to go around them, Rube. North or south. Jedediah Smith went north, into the Hudson Bay's country."

  That was the end of the meeting. Jenkins and Taggart got ready to depart immediately for Monterey. Rube Holly pulled Jenkins aside just before they rode out.

  "I ain't too sure yule ever make it to Monterey, Gus," said the old-timer. "You're in purty bad shape with that arm . . ."

  "I'll make it."

  "Say you do. How you aim to git Hugh away from them Mescans?"

  Jenkins shrugged. "To be honest, I have no idea. We'll cross that river when we come to it."

  "Well, just keep yore powder dry when you cross that river, hoss, 'cause I got a powerful feelin' yule need it on the other side."

  As they got close to Monterey it became readily apparent to Jenkins and Taggart that all hell had broken loose. The fight on the hill had stirred up a hornets' nest. Details of soldiers galloped up and down the roads leading into town. Off in the distance they could hear Monterey's church bells ringing, as the inhabitants were called to congregate and be warned of the crisis caused by the American mountain men. Leading the spare horse intended for Hugh Falconer, Jenkins finally gave it up and led the way deep into a bosquet of old oaks. There he dismounted.

  "We'll be better off waiting until dark," he told Taggart.

  Privately, Jenkins held out little hope for the success of their mission. Too bad they couldn't wait a week or two, laying low until the furor subsided. By then the locals would have figured the mountain men were long gone—assuming the brigade could stay hidden that long. But they couldn't wait. Waiting might prove unhealthy for Falconer. No, they had to go in. Even though the odds were stacked against their coming out in one piece.

  Of course, Jenkins wasn't going to share his grim assessment of their chances with Taggart. Glancing at his companion, he could tell by Taggart's expression that Taggart had made his own calculations—and didn't care for the outcome.

  Still, neither man gave a moment's thought to turning back and leaving Falconer to meet whatever fate the Californios had in store for him.

  Only after night had fallen did they venture out of the trees. There was a road near at hand. They gave it a try, turning their horses toward Monterey, which Jenkins reckoned was maybe two miles to the west. But a few minutes later they heard the thunder of many horses behind them and veered off the road, dismounting to lead their ponies down into a ravine. Thirty soldiers riding hell-bent for leather passed within spitting distance of them. Jenkins thanked the good Lord for moonless nights.

  A little farther on they spied a small adobe choza just off the road. Mustard-yellow candlelight gleamed in its windows. Stirrup to stirrup, the two mountain men sat their horses and watched the house for a spell. A man came out carrying a bucket. He went down to a nearby creek to fetch some water. Two little children stood in the doorway and called after him. Neither the man nor the children saw the two horsemen a hundred yards away.

  "Kinda hate to do it," admitted Taggart. He knew what Jenkins was thinking—he was thinking the same thing. They wouldn't get far in Monterey looking the way they did. Their buckskins were dead giveaways.

  "Well, he's got some mules yonder in the pen, and that cart might come in handy."

  Taggart nodded. "Let's go ahead then."

  When they went through the door, rifles leveled, the man and his family—wife, older son, two little children—were sitting down to a modest dinner of frijoles and tortillas. The wife screamed at the sight of the two strangers. The older boy stood up, fists clenched, lips tight-pressed, but froze as Taggart's rifle swung toward him. The man went for a cane knife over near the mudstick fireplace. Jenkins got in his way.

  "No one will come to harm," said Jenkins in Spanish, keeping his voice as calm as possible. "Unless you do something stupid, friend."

  The man went back to the table, put a comforting arm around his wife's trembling shoulders.

  "We are a poor family, mister. We have nothing worth stealing."

  "We didn't come here to steal, or to hurt anybody. We just want the loan of your cart and your mules. We'll try to return them to you when we are finished with them."

  The man didn't believe him. "Go and take them. Take anything you want. Just do not hurt my wife and children."

  Jenkins gla
nced at Taggart. What he was about to do was distasteful to him. But the situation did not lend itself to any other option.

  "I'm going to have to borrow your son, too."

  The wife wailed her protest, certain she would never see her son again—certain that these American barbarians would kill him.

  "Please, no," said the man. "Take me instead."

  Jenkins shook his head. "Sorry. Your son will have to come with us. He will be released unharmed—as long as you don't make trouble for us."

  "I will make no trouble for you, mister. I swear to God."

  "Let me make it plain. No one will leave this house until the sun comes up. In the morning, your son will be home, safe and sound—as long as you do what I say."

  "No!" cried the distraught mother. "Do not let them take Jesus, husband."

  "Hush, Mother," said Jesus. "I will go with them." His eyes were steady as they met Jenkins's gaze.

  Jenkins nodded approvingly. "You're a brave young man."

  "Let's go," said Taggart. "Quickly."

  Jesus bent to kiss his mother's tearstained cheek, then preceded Taggart out into the night.

  "My friend and I," said Jenkins, "will need some different clothes. Anything you can spare."

  "Yes, yes. I will get them," said the man.

  When Jenkins got outside, the borrowed clothes draped over an arm, the mules were already hitched to the two-wheeled cart. He and Taggart stripped down and donned their new attire—the white shirts and trousers of the common laborer, a couple of old serapes. They bundled up their buckskins and hid them beneath the hay strewn in the bed of the cart.

  "What about the horses?" asked Taggart.

  "We're only a mile from town. We'll have to hope we can get back here. Bringing them with us would draw too much attention. Take them down to the creek."

  Taggart led the horses away. When he returned, Jenkins and Jesus were up in the cart, with the leathers in the boy's hands. Jenkins figured Jesus knew how to handle a brace of knobheads as well or better than he did. Taggart climbed into the cart and settled down in the hay. Jesus coerced the mules into motion, and a moment later they were back on the road, heading into Monterey.

  Chapter 31

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF EBEN NALL

  November 13, 1837. This is our second day in the cabin by the sea. Padre Pico was right. It is secluded. I have not seen a soul since we arrived. This morning I went out to scout up and down the coast, looking for sign. There was none that I could find. How nice it would be, I thought, if Sombra and I could have this stretch of coast to ourselves forever. I think I know now how Hugh Falconer must have felt, alone in the high country with his Shoshone bride, Touches the Moon.

  It probably would have been wiser to stay in the cabin, out of sight, but Sombra wanted to go down to the sea. The sun was shining, the day warm, the gentle surf beckoning. I found out how impossible it was for me to say no to her. So, down to the beach we ventured. I sat in the sand with my rifle across my knees and watched her as she walked barefoot in the waves as they broke, foaming, on the white sand. Seagulls winged over our heads. Way out to sea, barely visible on the horizon, was a sailing ship, southward bound. It wasn't the Halcyon, of course—Captain Shagrue had said he would arrive tomorrow, sending a boat to pick us up. I did not relish the thought of setting sail with the captain and his crew, and I had a hunch Sombra wasn't looking forward to it either. I couldn't blame her. California was her home, the only home she had ever known. Though we hadn't left yet, she already missed it. She said not a word to me on the subject, but I could tell, just the same.

  That afternoon, much to my surprise, Padre Pico showed up, riding his white donkey. One look at his face and I could see that something was terribly wrong.

  "Señor Falconer has been placed under arrest."

  I couldn't believe I had heard him right. How could this have happened? Padre Pico told me all he knew. How Doc Maguire had murdered a woman night before last—the night he and I had helped Sombra escape from Gaviota outside the church. The soldiers had gone out to the brigade's camp with Don Carlos Chagres and his vaqueros the following morning—yesterday—looking for Sombra. Falconer had agreed to return to Monterey with them, to see the governor-general. Only then was he informed of the murder. He had asked to see Maguire. In the presence of the governor-general he had killed the Irishman. Now he was charged with murder.

  "An eye for an eye, Father," I said. Padre Pico did not say how he knew all this, and I did not ask. There wasn't any doubt in my mind that it was all true.

  "He was wrong to take a life," said the priest, shaking his head morosely. "But you do not appear to be surprised by his actions."

  I wasn't, really. Doc Maguire had given his word to Falconer that he would abide by Falconer's rules. And Falconer's foremost rule was that no member of the brigade should do anything that put the rest of the company at risk. Of course, in my case, Falconer himself had bent, if not broken, that very rule, by helping me arrange Sombra's escape from her father. I could only surmise that he had done so for Sombra's benefit.

  I tried to explain it to Padre Pico, defending Falconer's actions. As booshway, it was Falconer's duty to act as judge, jury—and, if need be, executioner. He took his responsibilities seriously. This was the code of the mountain man. We all tried to live by it. I couldn't help but believe that Doc Maguire had known Falconer would kill him if given the chance, thereby seeing that mountain justice was done.

  Padre Pico was no less perplexed when I was done. "But Maguire would have paid for his crime. Señor Falconer did not have to kill him."

  "Maguire would have paid for murdering the woman, yes. But not for betraying the brigade."

  A man can get into all sorts of trouble here.

  Those had been Doc Maguire's exact words, spoken as he and I waited for Falconer outside the governor-general's house. I remembered, then, how he had looked at those two señoritas as they sashayed by us. If I had only been paying more attention! I might have been able to warn Falconer. But would that have done any good? Probably not. Falconer had Maguire's word, and he would have expected the Irishman to keep it. He would not have forbidden Maguire to visit Monterey just on my hunch that Doc was up to no good.

  Try as I might, I could not make Padre Pico see my side of it. It all made perfect sense to me, but he refused to accept the notion that Hugh Falconer had in fact done what was expected of him.

  Of course, Sombra's disappearance and the murder of the woman had Monterey in an uproar, but it was nothing compared to the panic in the streets that resulted from a big fight this morning between a detachment of soldiers and the brigade, now led, I assumed, by Gus Jenkins. Padre Pico had heard that thirty soldiers had perished in an ambush set by my friends. I assured him that the first shot would not have been fired by any man in the brigade, especially if Jenkins was in command. Now there was a man who would go to any lengths to stay out of a fight. That is not to say that Gus Jenkins is a coward. Nothing could be further from the truth. I've heard that when a fight is inevitable few men can best Jenkins when it comes to what we call cut'n'shoot.

  Regardless of who had started what, one thing was beyond dispute: all hell had broken loose, and Padre Pico had come to warn me, because there was no way of knowing what might happen next. It was possible, said the priest, that Captain Shagrue would back out of our arrangement. Don Carlos had already had every ship anchored in the bay searched from stem to stern, and that might have given Shagrue a bad case of cold feet. I had to agree; Shagrue had a handful of Falconer's gold pieces, and with Falconer in jail facing a murder charge, it would be just like that drunken old Yankee pirate to forget all about picking us up on his way south.

  Having delivered the bad news, Padre Pico started back to the mission, assuring me that if there was anything he could do for us to let him know. But we would have to be extremely cautious now, if we came anywhere near the mission, as yesterday some of the vaqueros who ride for Don Carlos had come calling, on orders from t
heir patrón to search for Sombra. They had been permitted to look as long as they wanted, and had departed, apparently satisfied that the object of their search had not sought sanctuary within the mission walls. But there was no guarantee they wouldn't return. Clearly, Don Carlos was going to leave no stone unturned.

  After the priest's departure I sat for what must have been hours at the table, brooding over the turn of events. Everything had fallen to pieces. Sombra and I were trapped in the eye of the storm, and if Shagrue did not carry through with his part of the bargain there seemed to me to be no way out. My first thought was that we ought to make a run for it. Tonight we could ride north, giving Monterey a wide berth. Perhaps the Appaloosa could carry us both to freedom. She had never failed me before. Like Falconer had said, she was good luck.

  Jedediah Smith had escaped an inhospitable California by going far enough north to reach the country of the Hudson's Bay Company. But just how far was that country? I had no idea. And what would our chances be? I did have an idea on that—slim and none. Probably only slightly better than our chances if we chose to remain hidden here until the storm blew over.

  But there was a problem with trying to escape to the north. It would be akin to turning my back on Hugh Falconer. No matter that he had repeatedly told us to look out for ourselves if some ill fate befell him. I realized I could no more leave Falconer to rot in some California jail, or face a firing squad or a hangman's noose, than I could fly to the moon.

  Now all I had to do was explain this to Sombra. . .

  She cut him short.

  "You cannot desert your friend in his time of need," she told Eben. "You would not be the man I fell in love with if you did."

  "What?"

  "Yes, I am in love with you, Eben Nall. Are you not in love with me, as well?"

  "Uh . . . yes, I am." There. He'd said it.

  "I knew you must be, to have done the things you have done for my sake."

  "Any man would have done the same."