Falconer's Law

by Jason Manning

  Rufus Fuller, the man who had sustained a bad fall during the crossing of the Sierras, suffering multiple fractures, was slowing them down. Though the travois upon which he had spent a fortnight had been done away with, Fuller was unable to endure the long hours in the saddle required of him. During the noonday stop, Fuller called Falconer over.

  "You boys are going to have to get along without me, somehow," said Fuller, trying to make a joke of it. "Don't rightly know how you'll manage it, but those are the facts."

  "You sure, Rufus?"

  "Just can't keep up the pace, Hugh. I'm sorry."

  Falconer was not one to deny the obvious. Fuller was man enough to face the truth. Could he do any less?

  "Might be the best thing for you," he said.

  Fuller nodded. "I know. I'll just slip off up the next crik we come to. Won't leave no sign. Anybody's after us, they'll keep on after you boys. Then all I got to do is find a good place to lay low for the winter. Come green-up I should be healed enough to make it across the mountains."

  Falconer held out a hand. "Reckon I'll be seeing you then."

  "It was fun while it lasted," said Fuller, as he shook Falconer's hand.

  "Best of luck to you."

  The rest of the brigade filed past Fuller to say their so longs. Every man present donated something, some dried venison, powder and shot, a bit of tobacco, a blanket.

  As they tightened up their saddle cinches in preparation to ride on, Gus Jenkins watched Falconer without seeming to. He could tell that leaving Rufus Fuller was weighing heavily on Falconer.

  "No booshway likes to quit on one of his men," said Jenkins, speaking from experience. "But in this case we're all better off. Especially Rufus. Hell, he may be the only one of us to get shed of California. If he plays his cards right and keeps his head down till spring, I'd say his chances are pretty good."

  Falconer nodded. "It's the logical thing to do. I realize that. But it still cuts against the grain with me."

  "You let Bearclaw Johnson go without a fuss."

  "That was different. There was no stopping Bearclaw. We never really counted on him going the whole way with the brigade anyway, did we? He's been known to strike out on his own whenever it suits his fancy."

  "That's true. Most of the men figured a grizzly finally got the better of him. But my hunch is he'll show up again. Some men are just too all-fired mean to die. Bearclaw is one of those men."

  "But Rufus Fuller, that bothers me," confessed Falconer, scowling. "Reminds me of something that happened a long time ago."

  Jenkins studied Falconer's grim countenance. "Happened to you, did it?"

  Again Falconer nodded. "It was my first season in the high country. I fell in with a bunch of free trappers. Wolf Montooth was booshway."

  "Montooth!" Jenkins exclaimed. "Talk about all-fired mean."

  "Yeah. But I didn't know any better, until it was too late. We went up into Blackfoot country, to trap along the Judith. Naturally, we ran afoul of the Blackfeet. But Montooth had said it was worth it, that we'd find prime beaver country, and we did. The Blackfeet came down on us like the wrath of God. Had a big scrape. We managed to drive them off, but we knew they'd be back. A man named Dutch Hamblin was bad hurt. No way he was going to live, but he was strong and stubborn and slow to die. There were only five of us left then, not counting Dutch. Rest were thrown cold. Montooth and the other three decided to leave Dutch. They wanted to pack up what plews they could carry and get the hell south of the Musselshell before the Blackfeet came back."

  "And you weren't having any of it," surmised Jenkins.

  "No. I stayed with Dutch. I wouldn't say he was a friend of mine. Wasn't like that at all. But we were a brigade, and I figured a brigade ought to stick together, no matter what. You know what the Blackfoot would have done to Dutch had they found him still alive."

  "Yeah." Jenkins knew how adept the Blackfeet were at making death a real bad experience.

  "Montooth figured I was good as dead," continued Falconer bleakly. "So he stole my plews and rode off with the others."

  "Son of a bitch. Did the Blackfeet come back?"

  "Sure they did. But Dutch died the night before. The Blackfeet showed up at dawn the following day. I got shed of them by the skin of my teeth."

  Jenkins knew that if Dutch had still been alive that morning, Hugh Falconer would have gone down fighting at his side. Falconer was just made that way.

  "Well," he said, "I can see now why you feel the way you do about leaving Rufus. But it ain't the same thing at all, Hugh, you can see that, can't you?"

  "I reckon."

  Jenkins swung aboard his horse. "Whatever happened to ol' Wolf Montooth, anyway? He just kind of disappeared about ten years ago."

  "No," said Falconer grimly. "Not exactly. I killed him."

  "That's when you went off on your own."

  "I wasn't going to rely on anybody else but myself, ever again. Lived by that rule for fifteen years." Climbing into the saddle strapped to the back of his shaggy mountain mustang, Falconer scanned the rest of the company as they wearily made ready to move on.

  "But here you are," said Jenkins. "With a whole brigade relying on you."

  "What's left of a brigade," corrected Falconer. He had lost three men to the Digger Indians, six to the soldiers. Add Doc Maguire, Silas Nall, Bear-claw Johnson, Sixkiller, and now Rufus Fuller, and of the twenty-nine men who had followed him away from the Green River rendezvous last summer, there were only fifteen still with him, along with a trio of squaws.

  "Nobody thought we'd all come back alive," said Jenkins. "We didn't ask for no guarantee or anything."

  "Was it worth it, Gus?"

  "Oh, hell, yes, Hugh. I've had a grand old time." Jenkins grinned. "I wouldn't have missed it for anything. Now I've got something worthwhile to tell my kids, something that beats all I've ever seen or done."

  "You haven't got any kids, Gus."

  "I'm going to work on that as soon as I get back."

  Falconer smiled. "Come on. Let's ride. We don't want to keep the little lady—whoever she is—waiting."

  Remo was the first to notice that the horses they were tracking traveled with empty saddles. They were a couple of miles from the creek when the vaquero suddenly called a halt. He jumped down off his horse and knelt to give the tracks a closer inspection. Then he gave Don Carlos his assessment, and Chagres looked at Silas, and Silas knew immediately that something was very wrong.

  "It is a trick," said Don Carlos, in English for Silas's benefit. "Most of the horses we are following carry no riders."

  Silas felt a chill travel down his spine to his scrotum. He was on the verge of death at that moment; the Grim Reaper was breathing down his neck.

  "You did not know, did you?" asked Don Carlos.

  "No. I swear on my mother's grave, I didn't."

  Don Carlos grunted, pretending skepticism. He could tell the American was telling him the truth. Silas was too afraid not to. But Chagres wanted to keep him guessing. That way the American would be inclined to continue telling him the truth.

  The haciendero turned back to Remo. "How long ago?"

  "Yesterday."

  Don Carlos nodded. The mountain men—and Sombra—were only a day or so ahead of them now. Thanks to Remo's sharp eyes they would not increase their lead by this subterfuge.

  "They must have stayed in the creek," said Remo.

  "Upstream?"

  "Yes, patrón. They are running to the north, up through the big valley. It is their only hope." The vaquero turned and scanned the distant blue line of snowcapped peaks to the east. "I know of no way across the Sierras this late in the year."

  "Neither do I." In a way, mused Don Carlos, it was a shame. Had the mountain men really gone east they would soon be trapped in the western foothills unable to cross the Sierras because of the winter snow. The valley of the Sacramento would give them a clear and relatively easy passage to the Oregon Territory. In a fortnight they could be out of California.<
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  Not that boundaries would protect them. Don Carlos did not care how long it took, or where the trail led him. He would chase Hugh Falconer and his men to the ends of the earth, to the end of time, if need be.

  He didn't think it would take that long though. In a few days, at most, I will run them into the ground, he thought. I have almost forty men, against half that number. The Americans are doomed. They will all perish. I will take their heads to display in the streets of Monterey, and the people will know that I, Don Carlos Chagres, have protected them from the Yankee barbarians. Something the current governor-general proved unable to do.

  Don Carlos smiled. The arrival of Falconer and his brigade would work in his favor, demonstrating to the people that they would soon confront a grave risk. The arrogant, avaricious Americans were coming. They would covet California. Who wouldn't? The people needed a strong leader, a man made of sterner stuff than Don Luis, to keep the Americans at bay. A man like me. Certainly not Don Luis, who had greeted the mountain men with open arms. The fact that he, Don Carlos, had introduced Falconer to the governor-general was of little consequence. Don Luis had welcomed the Americans to Monterey, and look at the result. Worse, Hugh Falconer had committed murder while in the governor-general's custody—in the governor-general's very presence, in fact! Don Carlos could see himself occupying that house of yellow sandstone on Monterey's great plaza. It would happen soon.

  "Good work, Remo," he said. "I can always rely on you, can't I?"

  He reined his horse around sharply and headed back for the creek, followed by Silas Nall and the vaqueros.

  Remo took his time remounting, letting the others go on ahead. His features were inscrutable, as always. But his thoughts were racing.

  Don Carlos had made a huge mistake in killing the priest.

  For one thing, it had altered irrevocably the patrón's relationship with his vaqueros. Many of them were having second thoughts now about how far they would follow Don Carlos.

  Don Carlos was consumed by arrogance, so he could not see the truth lurking in the eyes of his men. He wasn't even looking. He just assumed they were still loyal to the death. And he could not see that all of California would turn against him now. Especially the campesinos, the poor laborers. Almost to a man they took their religion very seriously. And why not? It offered them a far better life in heaven than they were enduring here on earth. You just did not kill one of their priests. Remo was aware of his patrón's political aspirations. They were finished now. Don Carlos would never be governor-general. The people would not stand for a priest-killer holding the highest office in the land.

  And Don Luis would use the death of Padre Pico to eliminate his chief rival—of that Remo was certain. Don Carlos would answer for his crime, and all his money and influence would not save him from a death sentence. He had lost everything in a moment of rage, and, best of all, he was too blind to see it.

  So the hacienda was there for the taking. At last, thought Remo. All that must be done was to get Sombra back from the Americans. Sombra, of course, was the key. I will have her, thought Remo. She will have no say in the matter. And, once she is mine, Hacienda Gavilan will be mine, as well.

  That his patrón was doomed did not bother Remo, not in the least. When the time came he would not lift a hand to help Don Carlos. I can always rely on you, can't I? Remo almost smiled. Almost, but not quite. Don Carlos was such a fool, really. He misunderstood Remo's loyalty. Remo was loyal to himself only. Not like most of the other vaqueros, who thought of Don Carlos as a kind of god—or had until the death of the priest. For fifteen years Remo's best interests had been served by doing everything Don Carlos had asked of him, without question. All the while, Remo had planned one day to ask Don Carlos for Sombra's hand in marriage. He had become like a son to the haciendero, the son Don Carlos had never had, and Remo had been fairly certain that when the time came for him to ask, Don Carlos would approve the match.

  But then Remo had discovered his patrón's dirty little secret—that he was visiting Sombra's bed. Consuela had told him, careless in her desperation, hoping Remo might do something to save her beloved Sombra from this horror of horrors. Consuela, too, had misjudged him. At that moment Don Carlos had become Remo's rival, and Remo had despised him for taking a liberty he himself had long wished to take. Worse, Remo had realized that Don Carlos would never let Sombra marry. She belonged to him, and he would not part with her while he lived. But Remo had been too clever to take issue with Don Carlos, knowing that it was a confrontation he was bound to lose. And he had never let on that he knew the secret.

  Now, finally, after all these years of waiting and scheming, the moment was almost upon him, and Remo could foresee that all his dreams were going to come to fruition. All his desires would at long last be satisfied. Thanks to the Americans. They had been the catalyst, after all.

  Remo spurred his horse into a gallop. He had trained himself never to show emotion, never to let anyone know what he was thinking unless it was to his benefit to do so. The other vaqueros were looking to him for guidance, because the killing of the priest had brought them to the very brink of turning against their patrón. But they would not go over the edge without him. He had not given them a clear signal, yet—and would not until the time was right.

  If anyone had looked closely at Remo at that moment, they would have seen him gloating, in spite of his best efforts to appear impassive.

  Chapter 39

  Five days after Falconer rejoined the brigade, and almost two hundred miles north-northwest of Monterey, they saw soldiers for the first time.

  The soldiers were not coming up behind them from the south, as they had expected, but appeared to the north, athwart their escape route, a detail riding from west to east, across the breadth of the Sacramento valley. There were only seven men in the detail. When they spotted the mountain men they turned their ponies west and hightailed it.

  Falconer was clear about what had happened. Don Luis, the governor-general, was no fool. He had alerted units garrisoned in the north by hard-riding couriers, and the soldiers were patrolling the valley in hopes of spotting the fleeing Americans. They had concluded that the only really viable escape route for the brigade was to the north—the same direction Jedediah Smith had taken in his flight from the authorities some years ago.

  "When they show up again," said Taggart, "they'll have a lot more of their friends with them. Maybe we ought to go after 'em, Hugh. Run 'em down and kill 'em, before they can spread the word."

  Falconer shook his head. He had already considered and discarded that option. "We'd have to run our horses into the ground to catch up with them. And if that patrol doesn't report back when and where they're supposed to, they'd know it was us."

  "So what do we do?" asked Gus Jenkins.

  "Keep moving."

  The next morning, though, a larger detachment appeared. Falconer had chosen the site for the brigade's night camp with all due care and consideration for the lay of the land—a bosquet of trees on a hill, with open ground for hundreds of yards in every direction, and a creek running along the base of the eastern slope. A strong defensive position.

  "Must be fifty, sixty of them," remarked Jenkins, standing alongside Falconer as the latter surveyed the approaching column. "Guess this means our horses get a rest today," he added, in a paltry attempt at lightheartedness.

  Falconer was grimly silent. They had good cover, and water available, and still plenty of powder and shot. But how long could they hold off the soldiers? And even if they managed to keep this detachment at bay, how many more were just over the horizon?

  Clearly, this was the end of the road.

  The column halted two hundred yards from the trees, guidons flapping in the warm breeze, snapping like gunshots. An officer rode forward alone, checking his horse half the distance to the wooded hill.

  "Looks like he wants to palaver," said Jenkins. He experienced a strong sense of déjà vu. This was exactly how it had happened before, with Lieutenant
Ramirez, and he figured it would play out no differently this time around. That officer yonder would request their surrender. What would be Hugh Falconer's response? Jenkins was pretty certain of that Falconer was not going back to that iron cage in the Monterey presidio. Hell would freeze over before that happened. So the soldiers would attack, and many would die. Jenkins began to take a long, slow look at the countryside, thinking that this was as good a place as any to die.

  The officer sat his horse, ramrod straight, patient as Job.

  "Reckon I'd better go hear him out," sighed Falconer. "Have the men spread out and take cover, Gus. Watch all sides."

  Astride his mountain mustang, Falconer rode out to the officer. The Californio wore a dragoon's helmet with a scarlet horsehair plume and a brass chain-link chin strap.

  "Señor Falconer?"

  "That's right."

  "I am Captain Cuellar, at your service."

  "Cut to the quick, Captain. We don't aim to go back with you."

  "Is Sombra Chagres with you?"

  "She is with her husband, Eben Nall."

  Cuellar's lean brown face registered surprise. "I was not aware . . ."

  "You speak English damned well, Captain."

  "The governor-general sent me here for that reason."

  Falconer figured that wasn't the only reason. Cuellar looked like a fighter. "You're from Monterey, then."

  Cuellar nodded. "I knew Lieutenant Ramirez."

  "He was a good man. A shame he had to die."

  "I have seen many good men die, señor. It is a soldier's duty to die for his country, if called upon to do so. Ramirez and I talked the night before he led his troops into battle against your men. You should know that his heart wasn't in it. He admired you and your men. Did you know that?"