Falconer's Law

by Jason Manning

  The weather played its part. A bank of angry gray-black clouds had rolled in off the sea late that afternoon, hastening the night. Now the wind was howling like all the lost souls in Dante's Inferno, and jagged bolts of lightning struck the earth, and the crack of thunder was so loud that Silas could feel it reverberate in his spine. It was, Silas decided, as though God was lashing out at the world and all its wickedness.

  It had been twenty years since Silas had given God much more than a passing thought. When he was a child, he and his brother had been forced by their mother to attend Sunday services. Church had been a little white building of warped clapboard in Kakaskia, rather poorly constructed, with rows of rough-hewn benches that always managed to put splinters into the backs of your legs. The preacher had been a fearsome character named Goodwin. Goodwin preached fire and brimstone, everlasting hell and damnation, excoriating his congregation of lowly sinners with such passionate furor that his eyes seemed to shoot flames. Silas could vividly remember being terrified by Reverend Goodwin and his sermons, in which the fate of all those souls who by their wicked ways infuriated a stern and unforgiving Almighty was described in harrowingly graphic detail.

  Goodwin would have been pleased to know that he caused a young Silas Nall to have bad dreams. When Silas was old enough to have a say in whether he attended church or not, he was very much relieved to avoid the place like the plague. The way the Reverend Goodwin told it, heaven was mighty empty and would remain that way, since precious few were the people who could earn the right to go there, so pervasive was the evil in human nature. Silas had decided it wasn't really worth suffering a lifetime of fear and torment just to please a God that mere mortal man simply could not ever please no matter how hard he tried. According to Goodwin, a man or woman passed through the pearly gates, if he or she got there at all, solely as a consequence of the good Lord's mercy, since every effort made to please God would never be sufficient, and Silas had not once been provided with any convincing evidence that God was endowed with any mercy. So for twenty years he had let God alone, hoping God would return the favor.

  Tonight, though, Silas experienced that old terror, familiar from his childhood Sundays squirming on the splintery bench of the Kaskaskia church, or grimacing at the lancing pain in his knee joints as he knelt for interminable prayers on the hard puncheon floor. God was here, in California, this storm-swept night, and he was madder than hell.

  Because Don Carlos Chagres had killed a priest.

  They had arrived at the Carmel Mission just as the storm struck, unleashing its fury on a cowering earth, darkening the day. Don Carlos, three vaqueros, and a reluctant Silas Nall were welcomed into the ancient walls of the mission, and Chagres demanded to see Padre Pico. The meeting took place in a windowless chamber poorly lighted by guttering candles. Silas could tell right away that Don Carlos despised the priest. Hate was stamped on his face, a hate so strong it filled the room and made Silas uneasy. Surely Padre Pico could sense that hate too. But the priest did not appear in the least concerned. He must think, decided Silas, that God will protect him. But a merciless God was not going to shield him from the wrath of Don Carlos Chagres—of that Silas was certain.

  "Gaviota is dead," said Don Carlos. Silas thought at first that he was accusing Padre Pico of the deed.

  "I will pray for his soul," said the priest serenely.

  "He had no soul. Pray for your own. It was you who helped Eben Nall kidnap my daughter outside the church in Monterey, wasn't it?"

  "I helped Eben Nall free your daughter," corrected Padre Pico.

  "It was you who helped hide them since that time."

  Padre Pico nodded. "But what does this have to do with Gaviota?"

  "I suspected you from the beginning. So I had Gaviota watch you. You never knew he was nearby, did you? No, you would not. Gaviota was like a ghost. You would not see him if he did not want you to. And then, last night, he followed you somewhere, to the place that Eben Nall was keeping Sombra against her will. He did not report back to me this morning. He would not have failed to do so were he still alive. Somehow Eben Nall killed him."

  Standing against a wall, trying to be as inconspicuous as humanly possible, Silas shook his head. What the hell had gotten into his brother, anyway? Making off with this man's daughter. Rescuing Hugh Falconer from the Monterey presidio. And, if Don Carlos was correct in his deductions, getting the better of a killer like Gaviota? That didn't sound at all like the Eben Nall Silas knew. The Eben to whom caution and common sense were second nature. The Eben who, as a child, was too scared to get into fights. Silas had been in a dozen scrapes on Eben's behalf. He had always liked to fight, liked it because he was quick and strong and didn't mind getting hurt. Eben, on the other hand, had always seemed to be frightened by the sight of his own blood, something Silas could never understand. The only thing Silas hadn't liked about fighting was losing, and that had happened very seldom.

  I knew no fear back then, thought Silas. So what has happened to me now? And what has happened to my brother? Eben has done things these past few days I wouldn't have had the guts to try. Must be that woman. The one called Sombra. Women have a knack for making men do stupid things.

  Silas remembered Annie, the Arapaho cutnose over whom he had fought and slain the trader Portugee. If he hadn't been so stupid about Annie he wouldn't have had to join Falconer's brigade just to escape Portugee's vengeful partners, and he wouldn't be here in this godforsaken California, a short hair away from dying.

  "I do not know anything about that," said Padre Pico. "But I do know that Eben Nall was not holding your daughter against her will, as you imply, Don Carlos. She went with him of her own free will, to get away from you. She begged him to help her escape. What you have done to your own daughter!" Padre Pico shook his head sorrowfully. "I suppose God can even forgive you for that. But you must get down on your knees and ask His forgiveness."

  "On my knees?" Don Carlos laughed harshly. "Me?"

  "As I thought. You are too proud, too vain, and too ambitious. You think you are above the law. Not just the laws of men, but the laws of God as well."

  Don Carlos grabbed the front of the priest's cassock with both hands. "Where is my daughter?"

  "They are gone," said Padre Pico, still serene in voice and demeanor.

  "With the other Americans."

  "No doubt that is the case. Sombra knows she must leave California if she is to be beyond your grasp."

  "I will have my daughter back, priest, and I will do with her as I wish, and neither you nor anyone else—nor God—can prevent me."

  Padre Pico was shocked. "You condemn your soul to everlasting damnation with those words, Don Carlos."

  "All the Americans will die." Chagres glanced across the room at Silas, who actually cringed against the wall, for by now he had divined that the haciendero was truly a madman. "Except for this one, if he does my bidding."

  He's lying, thought Silas. He will kill me too.

  "I must tell you," said Padre Pico, "that before they left this morning, I married your daughter to Eben Nall."

  Don Carlos looked like he had been struck by invisible fists. Pale, stricken, he took an unsteady backward step, letting go of the priest as though the cassock scorched his hands.

  "Now," continued Padre Pico, with some smug satisfaction showing, "Eben Nall will be within his rights, by both the laws of man and the laws of God, to protect his wife from you, Don Carlos."

  With a roar Don Carlos charged the priest, driving him backward against the wall, slamming his head against the stones again and again and again . . .

  Silas and the two vaqueros watched in horror as scarlet smears of blood appeared on the stones where the back of the priest's head repeatedly struck the wall.

  Above the haciendero's maddened, incoherent snarls of blind rage, Silas heard Padre Pico murmur a final prayer.

  Then the life went out of him. Don Carlos let go of him and stepped away. The priest fell in a lifeless heap at his feet.
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br />   For a moment no one moved. Silas scarcely breathed. Chagres slowly collected himself. He stepped disdainfully over the priest's corpse and approached Silas. It was all Silas could do to stay upright. His knees had turned into jelly.

  "So you see," said Don Carlos, with a smile, "what happens to those who dare cross me."

  Now, riding back to Monterey with Chagres and the vaqueros, through the storm-swept night, Silas Nall watched God's angry sky, expecting at any moment a bolt of lightning that would strike them all dead. A merciless God had seen everything. He was sure of it Don Carlos Chagres would burn in hell. And so will I, thought Silas, with resigned certitude. I did not kill the priest. I was an innocent bystander, present against my will. But God will have none of my excuses.

  Chapter 36

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF EBEN NALL

  November 16, 1837. It has been three days since Jenkins and Taggart managed to free Hugh Falconer from the Monterey presidio. This is the first chance I've had to sit down and write in my journal since that time. We have been constantly on the move, and it is all I can do to keep my eyes open at this moment.

  I am now a married man. When Falconer and I reached the Carmel Mission, where I had left Sombra in the ever vigilant care of Padre Pico, I had not, of course, given serious thought to marriage. I had told Sombra that I loved her, and she had said she loved me, but I would not have dared ask for her hand. What could I, who owned little more than the clothes on my back and a few horses, with no prospects to speak of, offer the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in California, a girl who was accustomed since birth to the very best of everything? Yes, she had indicated that material things were of no consequence to her, but that was entirely beside the point. A man naturally wants to provide his wife with the security of a home and a prosperous future. I could not put a roof over Sombra's head, and, as for a future, it did not seem as though I had one. It isn't likely I will even get out of California alive. If I do, I have no clear notion of what I will do next, or even where I will go.

  It was Padre Pico who suggested Sombra and I marry. He would do the honors. Having talked at length to Sombra while I was away in Monterey trying to help Falconer, he was certain that her feelings for me ran deep and true. While she slept in another room, he urged me to ask her to be my wife. I balked at the idea. This hardly seemed the time or the place. But he told me that in fact it was the perfect time. As her husband, I would have the right to take her anywhere I wished. I would also have the right to protect her from danger, and to kill, if necessary, to do so.

  "That would make little or no difference to Don Carlos," I told him.

  "No, but it would mean something to everyone else. Do you not love her, my son?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Do you not wish to be with her always?"

  "Well, yes . . ."

  Beaming, the priest threw up his hands. "There you are, then. What are you waiting for? Go and ask her."

  I turned to Falconer, thinking he might save me by agreeing that this was not a good time for getting hitched, or "squawed up," as they say in the mountains. But he just shrugged and told me I might as well take the plunge.

  To make a long story short, I woke Sombra and asked her, though I have no idea whence I summoned the courage. I knew I was dreaming when she instantly said yes. Then she began to cry. I was mortified! What had I done? Was she weeping because she could foresee a future filled with poverty and hardship? Had she agreed to marry me only because she had no other options? But she assured me that the tears she cried were tears of happiness.

  Right from the start it was manifest she had made a particularly poor choice for a husband, as I could not even produce a ring to place upon her finger as a symbol of my everlasting devotion. Otherwise the ceremony was quick and painless. Hugh Falconer stood as my best man. And when it was all said and done a strange feeling possessed me. I was proud that Sombra had consented to be my wife. I knew a profound fulfillment, as well as an abiding commitment to her happiness, which I knew at that moment would always take precedence over all other considerations. Everything I would do from that moment on—every breath I took until the last—would be with her foremost in my mind.

  We did not tarry long at the mission, saying our good-byes to Padre Pico. Though I scarcely knew the man, I missed him terribly as soon as we rode away. I was also concerned for his safety. That he was a priest, I feared, would not shield him from the terrible wrath of Don Carlos Chagres.

  I did not know how we would ever rejoin the brigade, but Falconer seemed confident. We rode most of the night, stopping for only an hour prior to sunrise, to rest the horses. Falconer stretched out on the hard ground, reins tied to his wrist, and fell instantly to sleep. I envied him the ability to do that. I put a blanket around Sombra's shivering shoulders and held her close as I sat with my back against a tree and anxiously watched the night slowly expire. Here we were, in the midst of our enemies, hundreds of miles from safety, with danger and, possibly, death waiting at every turn. How could Falconer sleep at a time like this?

  At daybreak we were again on the move. I realized then that Falconer had made a beeline for the brigade's old camp just west of Monterey. From there we followed the sign north, past the place where Jenkins and the others had fought the soldiers. The trail took us farther north. By late afternoon we had come upon another abandoned campsite. Here, two horsemen had ridden south by west, in the direction of the town. Jenkins and Taggart, surmised Falconer, heading for Monterey twenty-four hours ago. They had returned late last night, and the brigade had started east. We were maybe six or seven hours behind them. The trail was one a blind man could follow; after all, the turn east was designed to fool pursuers into believing the brigade was going to try to cross the Sierras. They might then dash off to cover the passes, about which they knew more than we, in hopes of cutting us off. By then we would be far to the north.

  Certain that we would soon rejoin our companions, and much relieved by the prospect, I turned my thoughts to what I would do if by some miracle we got out of California alive. The fur trade was on its last legs. There would be little profit to be had in harvesting brown gold from now on. A few trappers would keep at it, because they were loath to surrender that way of life. But it would be a struggle for those die-hards to even keep themselves supplied with powder and shot.

  I love the mountains and the wild, free life of the trapper, but I knew it would not suit Sombra. Returning to Ohio was another option, though the thought of becoming a store clerk again turned my stomach. Becoming a farmer was an option almost as dismal. By the end of the day I was no closer to an answer than when I had started.

  For a second night we kept moving until a few hours before daybreak. I figured we had to be real close to catching the brigade now and was surprised when Falconer called a halt.

  "They're not far," he said, when I asked him about it. "A few miles east of us. But it will be safer coming up on them in daylight. They'll be quick on the trigger."

  "You'll get no argument from me," I said. "I'm bone-tired. I don't think I could stand that saddle another mile."

  Sombra went to sleep as soon as she hit the ground. We built no fire, though the night had turned quite cold. We had no provisions either—I had left the cabin by the sea in such haste that taking some of the supplies Padre Pico had so thoughtfully provided hadn't even occurred to me. But we dared not fire a shot to bag a deer or wild turkey, not knowing if a detachment of soldiers—or Don Carlos and his vaqueros—was just over the next hill.

  "You've done yourself right proud," said Falconer, sitting cross-legged at the base of a tree, a rifle that had once been the property of a presidio guard resting across his knees. "She's a brave girl, and strong. Not a complaint out of her."

  "She's better than I deserve," I replied. "I've been wondering what I can do to take good care of her. What are you going to do, if we get out of this?"

  "If?" Falconer smiled. "O ye of little faith."

  "You said yourself we
had a damned poor chance. Those were your exact words."

  "Were they? Well, I feel better about things the farther I get from the iron cage. In answer to your question, I really don't know."

  "Me either. The fur trade is finished, and I don't think I'd make a very good farmer. I just don't see what I can do."

  "You're overlooking the obvious."

  "I am? What?"

  "That mare of yours. She's the damnedest horse I've ever seen. Folks are going to need a lot of good horses out here. West of the Mississippi is not what I'd call walking country."

  That was all Falconer said on the subject, but the more I thought about it the better I liked the idea. I fell asleep—Falconer said he would stand watch tonight—feeling pretty good about the future for the first time in a coon's age.

  The next day we caught up with the brigade.

  It would be an understatement to say that the men were happy to see Hugh Falconer. Now they too could feel a lot better about the future. There was something about having Falconer at your side—you began to think anything was possible, no matter how steep the odds. It was the legend behind the man, I suppose. He had done many extraordinary things in his lifetime. I remembered the day I had first seen Falconer, coming down from the high lonesome. Rube Holly had regaled me with all the stories about him as we watched him make his way across the valley toward the camp. Sure, I knew some of it must be pure fancy. But I was convinced that much of what they said about the man was true.

  Jenkins reported that they had seen nary a sign of the soldiers, and the men were beginning to think the Californios had exercised some common sense and decided to let the brigade go in peace. Falconer sought to disabuse them of this notion, knowing that overconfidence in our situation could prove fatal. And even if, he said, the soldiers were no longer after them, we could rest assured that Don Carlos Chagres would pursue us to the gates of hell.

  It was clear that the men were all curious about Sombra and what she was doing with me. Falconer proceeded to tell them the whole story.