Falconer's Law

by Jason Manning

  "Don't make me kill you," said Jenkins.

  For the moment, at least, the soldier was dissuaded. He started down the steps. Jenkins pulled back a little and followed. At the bottom of the steps was a long underground chamber with strap-iron cells lining both sides.

  The area was dimly illuminated by lanterns at either end. Some of the cells were occupied—Jenkins could hear the snores of several men, and he could smell the men too—but it was hard to tell who was in what cell in this dank gloom.

  "Where is the American? Falconer?" asked Jenkins.

  The soldier pointed to the far end of the chamber—then swung the lantern he was holding, trying to strike Jenkins in the face with it. The mountain man had extraordinary reflexes. He ducked under the lantern and drove the stock of the rifle into the soldier's midsection. The soldier grunted and jackknifed, dropping the lantern. Jenkins laid the rifle barrel alongside the man's head, just hard enough to knock him out, not hard enough to kill him.

  Relieving the unconscious man of the ring of keys, Jenkins started down the passageway between the cells.

  "Hugh? Hugh Falconer?"

  A man appeared at the door of one of the cells, groping at Jenkins with clawing hands through the strap iron.

  "Let me out," said the man, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. Crazy eyes blazed out of a dirty, bearded face. It wasn't Falconer, but a local, and by the looks of him he had been incarcerated down here for quite a spell.

  "Sorry," said Jenkins, in Spanish. "I cannot."

  "Let me out, or I will yell, and the soldiers will come."

  Jenkins found a key that unlocked the cell door. The man took one step across the threshold and ran into a rock-hard fist. The eyes in his head rolled, and he toppled backward, unconscious. Jenkins closed and locked the cell door, ruefully flexing his aching hand.

  He found Falconer down at the end of the cellblock, just as the soldier had said. A lantern was hanging on a nearby wall, and he could get a pretty good look at Falconer. He didn't like what he saw. Falconer sat at the edge of a narrow iron bunk, his head hanging. When he raised his head to look at Jenkins, his eyes were sunk deep in their sockets.

  Jenkins knew right away what was wrong. To be locked in a cage was a fate worse than death for a man like Hugh Falconer, who had spent the better part of his life roaming free in the high country. Falconer had been in the cell for only a day and a half, but that was plenty long enough. Being closed in like this ate at his insides like a cancer.

  "Come on, Hugh," said Jenkins. "Let's get the hell out of California. What do you say?"

  At the sound of Jenkins' voice Falconer seemed to come to life. He stood up stiffly. "Amen to that."

  Leaving the cellblock, they went back up the steps and into the courtyard. As they were nearing the barracks, a door creaked open and a man stepped out directly in their path. He took one look at Jenkins and Falconer, blinked in disbelief, then his eyes got wide. Falconer wasted no time. He plowed into the soldier, driving him back into the door frame, slamming a forearm into his face. Catching the dazed man as he slumped forward, drooling blood, Falconer hurled him through the doorway where he collided with a second soldier rushing out. Both men went down.

  "Run for it, Gus."

  Jenkins tossed Falconer the rifle as he drew his pistol from its place of concealment beneath the soldier's uniform. They sprinted for the gate. Taggart had it open for them. The shouts and curses of the soldiers pursued them, and, as they reached the gate, several guns spoke. Bullets burned the air around them. One ricocheted off the gate in a shower of sparks. Falconer whirled and fired. Taggart got off a shot too. Neither man wasted time hanging around to see if they had hit anything. Falconer bolted around the corner of the presidio, hot on the heels of Gus Jenkins. Taggart followed, as soon as he had padlocked the gate and hurled the skeleton key out into the plaza.

  Jenkins was surprised to see the carreta rolling toward him as he churned around the corner. The young Californio was steering the mules, and Eben Nall stood beside him.

  "Good work, Eben," said Jenkins, as he piled into the back of the cart with Falconer and Taggart. "What about the guards?"

  "They're both sleeping like babies now," replied Eben.

  "Turn this thing around," Jenkins told the young driver in curt Spanish. "Let's see how fast those mules can move."

  The young man complied, knowing the soldiers would make no distinction between him and the Americans until it was too late.

  There was no pursuit. Locking the gate had been quick thinking on Taggart's part. The soldiers wasted precious minutes locating a key and getting through the gate. By then the mountain men were long gone.

  On the way back to the choza where the young man lived with his family, Jenkins told Falconer about the fight between the brigade and the detachment of soldiers commanded by Lieutenant Ramirez.

  Falconer just shook his head at the news. Things had come unraveled so fast and so completely that he had a tough time believing it was real. He didn't waste time trying to second-guess himself, wondering what he might have done differently. Hindsight was a luxury he had no time for now. Almost half the brigade was dead, and the rest of them were, for all intents and purposes, trapped in California, where everyone was the enemy.

  Jenkins had a real good idea what thoughts were racing through his booshway's mind. "Which way are we going to go, Hugh? I don't know if we'll be able to make it back across the Sierras."

  "No. We'll have to go north."

  "Of course, the soldiers will figure that out too."

  Falconer nodded. Maybe so. The countryside would be crawling with army patrols. They were going to have one hell of a time trying to reach the Oregon country.

  When they reached the choza, Taggart ran down to the creek to fetch the horses. While he was absent on that errand, and Jenkins was in the house convincing the people there that it would be unwise for them to step one foot outside until sunrise, Falconer turned to Eben.

  "Where is Sombra?"

  "With Padre Pico at the mission."

  "I'd be right surprised if Captain Shagrue holdsup his end of the bargain now, with everything that has happened."

  "I know."

  Falconer scanned the night, thinking. "There's no help for it. You two had better come along with us. Probably your only chance—and a damned poor one at that."

  Eben had already come to the same conclusion. He was glad Falconer had made the offer, since he hadn't planned to ask, feeling that he had made enough trouble for the brigade already.

  When Jenkins and Taggart returned, Falconer told them he was going to ride with Eben. "Get back to the brigade, Gus. Ride due east."

  "East? But I thought . . ."

  "We'll turn north when we can do it without leaving much sign. Hopefully, we'll fool them into thinking we're going to try the mountains. Eben and I will catch up with you. Stay on an eastern course until we do."

  Jenkins nodded and swung into the saddle.

  "Gus," said Falconer.

  "Yeah?"

  "Thanks. Thanks to all of you. I wouldn't have lasted long in that iron cage."

  Jenkins tried to make light of what he had done. "Now aren't you glad we don't obey orders very well?"

  He and Taggart rode on, leading the two mules, which they planned to cut loose a few miles from the choza, not wanting that brave young Californio to go galloping back into Monterey anytime soon.

  Falconer climbed on his horse and gave Eben a hand up behind him.

  "Gaviota's dead," said Eben. "Sixkiller too."

  "Tell me later."

  Falconer kicked the horse into a gallop.

  Chapter 34

  When they came through the door, Silas Nall was sleeping.

  He groped instinctively for the pistol he thought was there at his side. But it wasn't there anymore. At that moment Silas got the first inkling that he had been betrayed. But he was too groggy—how much aguardiente had he consumed the night before?—to think clearly.
/>   It was dark in the choza. The gray suggestion of dawn crept through the doorway, against which the dark shapes of the men who had come for him were silhouetted. Rough hands grabbed him. Obviously this was no social call. Silas tried to fight back. He landed a fist in somebody's face, heard a muttered curse in Spanish, and felt fleeting satisfaction. Fleeting, because fists hammered back at him, paying him back in kind and then some. He fell to hands and knees on the hard-packed dirt of the floor, the copper taste of blood bitter on his tongue. A booted foot struck him in the guts, knocking the wind and all the fight out of him. A wave of nausea washed over him and he vomited. He clawed at the leg of one of the men standing over him. Someone up there laughed, an ugly and discomfiting sound, and kicked him again. Silas rolled over on his side and curled up into a fetal position and lay there with his arms covering his face, lay there in his puke, shivering uncontrollably.

  A candle was lit, and then he saw they were not soldiers, as he had first believed. The two men looming over him were vaqueros, and he recognized them. They rode for that son of a bitch Don Carlos Chagres.

  Speak of the devil. Chagres appeared in the doorway. He had the prostitute, Maria, with him, holding her by the arm, and he pushed her roughly inside. She faded back into a corner of the room and cowered there, frightened eyes wide and glistening behind a veil of raven-black hair that had fallen down over her face.

  "Stand him up," said Chagres.

  The vaqueros grabbed Silas and hauled him to his feet. He was naked, covered with dirt and vomit. Don Carlos looked him over with disdain and shook his head, his patrician features a mask of derision.

  "Why do the people fear these men so?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question. "They are little better than animals." He spoke in English, for Silas's benefit.

  "I didn't do anything," said Silas, still wheezing from the kicks. "Swear to God, I'm innocent."

  "Really? Then why have you been hiding here, in the house of a prostitute, for four days?"

  "Doc Maguire killed that woman. But I had nothing to do with it."

  "But you were there, were you not?"

  "Wasn't with him. You got to understand. I was . . . I was nearby. But I wasn't with him when he killed her."

  "So why did you not return to the brigade?"

  "The brigade? Are you crazy? Do you know what Falconer did to Maguire? He'd do the exact same thing to me."

  "But you were not involved—you said so yourself. Why would you have anything to fear from Falconer?"

  "You don't know him. He's one mean son of a bitch, Falconer is."

  "How did you know he killed Maguire?"

  Silas nodded at the woman. "She told me."

  Chagres smiled coldly at the prostitute. "She also betrayed you."

  Slow to comprehend, Silas stared at Maria.

  "It is true," said Don Carlos. "You see, I offered a generous reward for any information that might lead me to the capture of the Americans who kidnapped my daughter, Sombra."

  "Had nothing to do with that, either."

  "No? Are you not the brother of Eben Nall?"

  "Yes, but . . . you mean Eben . . . ?"

  Don Carlos nodded. "I am certain of it."

  "I'll be damned," breathed Silas. "I never would have thought he had the backbone to do something like that. Not my little brother."

  "Your little brother is as good as dead."

  "You got to believe me when I tell you . . ."

  Don Carlos held up an imperious hand, cutting short Silas's protest.

  "You may still be of use to me. That is why I will pay this woman her thirty pieces of silver."

  Chagres threw a handful of coins—gold, not silver—on the floor. Maria fell upon them as a vulture would fall upon carrion.

  "You conniving bitch," snarled Silas, as it came clear to him what Maria had done. "If I get out of this alive I'll pay you a little visit."

  Having gathered up all the coins, Maria stood, spat in his face, and kicked him, hard, between the legs.

  Doubled over, Silas would have fallen but for the two vaqueros who had him by both arms. Another wave of nausea—this time he could only dry-heave. The vaqueros laughed as Maria loosed a string of venomous invective. Silas straightened up as much as he could, trying to act like the searing pain in his groin was of no consequence to him and like he wasn't really afraid for his life . . .

  "Yeah," he gasped, manufacturing a little bravado, "and I'm getting pretty damned tired of you, too."

  "Get him out of here," snapped Don Carlos.

  "Hey," said Silas, as the two vaqueros hustled him out the door. "What about my clothes?"

  No one bothered to answer him. Another vaquero sat his horse out in the street. This one had his reata ready, and tossed a loop over Silas, nice as you please. Before Silas knew what was happening, his arms were pinned to his sides as the loop tightened around his chest.

  Don Carlos and the other two vaqueros climbed into their saddles. Chagres led the way. The vaquero at the easy end of the reata spurred his horse into a canter to follow his patrón. Silas tried to run, but in short order stumbled and fell. The vaquero did not slow his horse. He knew Silas had fallen, but he didn't care, and Silas was dragged. Somehow he managed to keep from crying out in pain as great swaths of skin were scraped off his body by the hardpack. The horseman took a corner, and Silas began to roll. He got his knees planted and lurched to his feet. Obviously the vaquero was willing to drag him halfway across California. The pair of vaqueros bringing up the rear were laughing at him. It was all such great sport.

  Monterey was waking to a new day. The curious procession of Don Carlos, his men, and their prisoner drew a lot of interest. The vaqueros readily answered shouted questions regarding the identity of their prisoner. Upon hearing that Silas was one of the mountain men, many of the people hurled taunts and insults at him, and a few found rocks to throw at him.

  When they reached the Chagres's house, Silas was a bruised and bloodied mess. Several times he had fallen and been dragged. The vaquero with the reata tossed his rope over a stout limb of one of the big oaks that shaded the house, and a moment later Silas found himself dangling several feet off the ground, twisting slowly.

  They left him hanging there for hours. The rope was so tight around his chest that Silas began to have some trouble breathing. In a panic, he shouted for help. A vaquero appeared—the same one who had dragged him through the streets—and laid Silas's back and shoulders open with a rawhide quirt. From then on Silas suffered in silence.

  The sun had passed its zenith when they came to take him down. He sank to the ground, too weak to stand. The vaqueros took pleasure in kicking him until he got up. One of them threw a shirt and a pair of trousers at him. Silas donned the clothes, wincing in pain. Every bone, muscle, and joint in his tortured body screamed in pain. Scarcely a square inch of his flesh was not cut, bruised, or abraded.

  The vaqueros escorted him inside. They sat him down in a chair at the end of a long polished table in a dim, cool room. At the other end of the room, Don Carlos stood near a big stone hearth, gazing at the fire inside, a glass of Madeira in one hand, a cigar smoldering in the other. Silas stared longingly at the glass. He would have killed for a drink of water. He hadn't been this dry since the desert crossing months back.

  Two vaqueros took up positions behind his chair. Minutes crawled by in silence. Don Carlos appeared to be lost in thought, unaware of their presence in the room. Silas tried not to wonder what they had in store for him. Sooner or later they would kill him—of this he had little doubt. He had been in some tight spots before and always managed to lie, cheat, or steal his way out of them. But this time he had no confidence in himself. Damn you, Eben, he thought. This is all your fault. Eben had made off with this man's daughter, and now this man was going to make him, Silas, pay for it. It wasn't fair.

  You may still be of some use to me. Wasn't that what Chagres had said this morning? Maybe there was a chance, after all.

  "I'll do anythi
ng you want, Don Carlos," he said. "Just tell me what it is, and I'll do it."

  One of the vaqueros hit him a backhanded blow to the side of the face. Silas didn't see it coming. He collapsed sideways out of the chair and didn't think he had the strength left to get back up again. But when the vaquero began to kick him, he found the strength.

  "That is enough," said Chagres.

  The vaquero stepped away from Silas. Gasping, Silas hauled himself up into the chair.

  "Do you wish to live, señor?" asked Don Carlos.

  "God, yes."

  "Even without honor? Some men, they would say life is not worth living without honor. But you are not such a man, are you?"

  "No."

  "No, I thought not. You will betray your friends for me, just to stay alive. That is what I ask of you."

  Silas blinked. "The brigade?"

  "Yes. Falconer and every last one of his men will die. I will do what the governor-general and his soldiers have been unable to do. And the people, señor, the people will cheer me. I will be their salvation."

  "They'll . . . they'll kill me if I do."

  "But I will kill you if you do not."

  Silas thought it over. So long as he drew breath he had a chance. There had to be a way out of this. But if he said no they would probably kill him on the spot. So he had to pretend to go along.

  "Okay," he said. "I'll do what you want."

  "You would betray your own brother?"

  "Eben's not with the brigade anymore."

  "Oh, but I think you are wrong. I think he helped Falconer escape from the presidio. Now they are all trying to escape. And my daughter is with them. She must be. But, señor, they will not escape me. You will help me find them."

  "Sure," said Silas. "Sure I will."

  "But first you will come with me."

  "Where are we going?"

  Don Carlos smiled. "I am going to show you what happens to men who cross me."

  Chapter 35

  At some point during the ride back to Monterey from the Carmel Mission, Silas Nall decided he was trapped in a living nightmare from which there would be no awakening.