Falconer's Law

by Jason Manning

  "The feeling was mutual."

  "But you say Sombra Chagres is married to one of your men?"

  "Ask Padre Pico, at the Carmel Mission. He performed the ceremony."

  "Padre Pico is dead."

  Now it was Falconer's turn to be surprised. "When did that happen?"

  "Five days ago. Don Carlos Chagres killed him. That is what the other priests at the mission have said."

  Falconer shook his head. "Another good man dead. How many more, Captain? How did it come to this? We didn't ride all this way to start a war."

  "Why did you come to California, señor?"

  "Hard to explain. Because we wanted to see what was on the other side of those mountains. That was part of it, anyway. And because the kind of life we know is just about done for. Pretty soon there won't be a place for our kind anymore."

  Cuellar peeled the gauntlet off one hand, reached under his tunic, and brandished a rolled sheet of heavy vellum secured with a seal of scarlet wax. This he offered to Falconer.

  "What is this?" asked the mountain man.

  "Safe passage for you and all your men. It bears the signature and seal of the governor-general himself."

  Astonished, Falconer took the document. "I don't understand . . ."

  "The charges against you have been dropped."

  "But why?"

  Cuellar shrugged. "I am only a soldier, señor."

  "But you have a pretty good idea."

  The dragoon officer suppressed a smile. "If I had to guess, I would say you have Don Carlos Chagres to thank."

  "I see."

  "The murder of the priest puts everything in a new light. Your man, the one who killed the prostitute, paid for his crime. Now Don Carlos must pay for his. Before, the people sympathized with Don Carlos and feared you and your men. They believed him when he said his daughter had been kidnapped. I know I did. But now I wonder, what kind of man is he, that he could kill the priest? Perhaps Sombra Chagres ran away from him and for good reason. Now the people fear Don Carlos more than they fear you. The governor-general, of course, is aware of this . . ." Cuellar shrugged.

  Falconer nodded. It all made perfect sense.

  "As for the death of our brave soldiers, and of your men, that is regrettable," continued the dragoon captain. "Don Luis concedes that it was all a big mistake, as you would say. He is convinced that your motives for coming to California were good. While it is true that one of your men killed that woman, Don Luis believes it would be unjust to punish all of you for one man's misdeeds."

  So everything, thought Falconer—Doc Maguire's murder of the prostitute, Eben Nall's helping Sombra escape her father, the death of Padre Pico—all of it was overshadowed by the power struggle taking place between the governor-general and Don Carlos Chagres. Don Luis had ordered Lieutenant Ramirez to capture the brigade because, at the time, his rival had held all the cards. Don Carlos would have used the governor-general's unwillingness to deal with the mountain man "threat" to his own advantage. Knowing this, Don Luis had been pressured into making an ill-advised decision, one Falconer had begged him not to make, one that had cost the lives of many men—Lieutenant Ramirez among them.

  By killing Padre Pico, Don Carlos had given all the cards to Don Luis. The governor-general now held the winning hand and could afford to let the brigade go in peace. Falconer felt like laughing out loud, so great was his relief.

  "You are not—how do you way?—out of the woods just yet, Señor Falconer," warned Captain Cuellar.

  "You're right. Don Carlos and his vaqueros."

  "My orders are to arrest Don Carlos and return him to Monterey for trial."

  "You can expect a stiff fight from the men who ride with him.'

  "Perhaps." Cuellar glanced over his shoulder at the column of dragoons a hundred yards behind him. "But these are the finest troops in California."

  "I reckon you'll find Chagres back there somewhere," said. Falconer, inclining his head to the south.

  "Hot on your trail, I suspect." Cuellar saluted him. "Buenos dias, señor. Vaya con Dios."

  "Good luck, Captain."

  Cuellar rejoined his dragoons. Falconer rode back to the trees.

  "We're free to go on our way," he told Jenkins.

  Jenkins was sure he hadn't heard right. But then he saw the dragoons on the move, swinging wide around the tree-cloaked hill and heading south. He watched them go with slack-jawed amazement. While Falconer had been parlaying with the officer, he'd been thinking about all the things he'd never gotten around to doing in his life and now, since he was about to die, never would do. He felt like a man condemned to the gallows who had just received a last-minute reprieve.

  Falconer relayed the good news to Eben Nall. Eben was settled in behind a log with Rube Holly, rifle ready, powder horn and shot pouch laid out. Eben ran to find Sombra who, with Luck and the other two squaws, was holding the horses in the middle of the bosquet.

  "We're free, Sombra!" exclaimed Eben. "We're going to live through this. Those dragoons are out here to find your father. He's going to be arrested for the murder of Padre Pico."

  Sombra was aghast. "Padre Pico! Dead?" The priest was part of her earliest childhood memories.

  Eben nodded, his elation tempered with sorrow. "Our good friend is dead. But don't you see, Sombra? You don't have to leave California now, if you don't want to."

  "I-I do not know. My father is very powerful . . ."

  "He killed a priest. All his money and influence will avail him nothing."

  "But what do you want to do, Eben?"

  "Whatever you want, my darling. I will be at your side loving you until the day I die."

  Sombra melted into his arms. "Can it be true? Are we really free?"

  Eben nodded. It was as though he had finally awakened from a long nightmare.

  Chapter 40

  When he saw the dragoons coming, Remo could scarcely keep a smile from his face. He watched Don Carlos closely. The haciendero appeared blissfully unconcerned. He is a fool, decided Remo. The moment I have been waiting for all these years is finally at hand.

  Captain Cuellar gave Don Carlos a brisk salute and spared the forty Gavilan vaqueros a wary glance. It was a well-known fact that the men who rode for Chagres were exceedingly loyal to their patrón. They recognized only his word as law, and Cuellar was wondering how they would react to what he was about to do.

  Not that it mattered what they did. He had his orders, and he would carry them out.

  "Have you seen the Americans, Captain?" asked Don Carlos, peremptorily.

  "I have. This morning."

  It was mid-afternoon. Don Carlos felt the blood quicken in his veins. They were closing on their prey. But wait. There was something amiss. These dragoons had not been in a fight—Don Carlos could tell as much with a glance.

  "And you let them go in peace?"

  "I did," replied Cuellar. "After giving them a letter of safe passage bearing the seal of the governor-general."

  Don Carlos blanched. "The fool!" he cried. "He doesn't know what he has done!"

  "The governor-general knows exactly what he is doing, señor," said Cuellar curtly.

  The haciendero's eyes narrowed. "Be careful of your tone, Captain."

  Cuellar nodded at Silas Nall. "Who is this man?"

  "His brother kidnapped my daughter, Sombra."

  "The safe passage applies to him as well."

  "I intend to use him, to exchange him for Sombra."

  "You will release him immediately."

  "I will do no such thing. How dare you dictate to me."

  "Don Carlos Chagres, you are under arrest. I have written orders to that effect, if you would care to see them."

  Remo couldn't resist any longer. He smiled.

  Don Carlos, rendered momentarily speechless, stared at the dragoon captain.

  "The charge against you is murder," continued Cuellar. "The murder of Padre Pico."

  Don Carlos laughed harshly. "Get out of my way," he snarled, a
nd raked his horse with his silver spurs.

  Cuellar grabbed the concho-studded cheekstrap of the bridle on the haciendero's horse. Don Carlos responded to this outrage by lashing out with his quirt of braided rawhide. The dragoon was ready for it; he clutched the quirt and pulled. The quirt was looped around the haciendero's wrist by a rawhide thong, and Cuellar was as strong as he was quick. Don Carlos found himself lurching forward out of his saddle. He hit the ground, bounced to his feet with an incoherent cry of rage, and launched himself at the mounted officer. Cuellar had already freed his booted foot from the stirrup and now planted it in the haciendero's chest, propelling him backward. Don Carlos lost his balance and struck the ground a second time.

  The vaqueros had never seen their patrón treated in such a manner. To a man they put their hands on their pistols.

  "Remo!" shouted Chagres.

  Cuellar's pistol was drawn and pointed at Remo. "Do not interfere," warned the dragoon.

  Remo scanned the grim, weathered features of the vaqueros. Most of them were watching him. They were all stunned by this turn of events. Waiting for his signal, as they had done for years. Always before, when Don Carlos had spoken the law, Remo had instructed them on the means of carrying out that law. No one questioned Remo's authority to do this. I have always been the patrón's trusted lieutenant. Always—until now.

  "We will not interfere," Remo told Cuellar.

  Cuellar was surprised. This was not at all the response he had expected from the men of Don Carlos Chagres.

  But he was no more surprised than Don Carlos himself. Sitting on the ground, Chagres gaped at Remo, slow to accept the fact that he had been betrayed.

  "You should not have killed that priest," Remo told him, his tone cold and matter-of-fact and lacking respect.

  Cuellar's curt gesture brought a pair of dismounted dragoons forward. They stood over Don Carlos. Chagres got to his feet. The soldiers took him by the arms and relieved him of the handsome matching pistols in his belt. He tried to shake them off, but they held on.

  "Put him on his horse," said Cuellar. "Out of respect, Don Carlos, we will not place you in irons. But if you try to escape, I will shoot you myself. I would like your word of honor that you will not put up any resistance."

  "You have it." Don Carlos glowered at Remo. "Traitor. Ladron. Do you think Hacienda Gavilan will be yours? Do you think you can be rid of me so easily? No court in California would dare convict me. You will answer someday for your treachery. I promise you that."

  He still cannot accept the truth, mused Remo, unconcerned by these threats. He is a dead man. He would be better off trying to escape, so that the captain can kill him. It would save him much humiliation, and he is a very vain and proud man.

  "Señor," said Cuellar, addressing Remo, "you will release the American and return to Hacienda Gavilan at once." He turned to Silas, switching to English. "You are free to go. Your friends are a half day's ride to the north."

  A moment later the dragoons were riding west, with Don Carlos Chagres as their prisoner.

  "What do we do now, Remo?' asked one of the vaqueros.

  Remo knew the question was foremost on everyone's mind. These men were like children, in a way. They had never had to take the initiative. Their thinking had always been done for them.

  "My loyalty now rests with Sombra Chagres," he said, careful to keep any trace of the smug satisfaction he felt from revealing itself on his stern countenance. "We must rescue her from the Americans."

  "But the Americans have been given safe passage by the governor-general himself," said another vaquero.

  "I ride for Sombra Chagres," snapped Remo. "Who goes with me? Those who do not choose to, may go their own way. Make up your minds! Quickly!"

  Only eight of the Gavilan vaqueros turned their horses and rode away. That didn't bother Remo. He had expected a few defections.

  "Reckon I'll be going, too," said Silas Nall.

  In the next instant he was staring down the barrel of Remo's pistol.

  "You will come with me."

  "But the man said I was free to go."

  "The dragoons are gone. You will come with me."

  Silas shook his head. "Eben won't trade that girl for me."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "Because I wouldn't, were I in his moccasins."

  "We will find out," said Remo. "Tomorrow."

  Silas knew he had one more day to live.

  With the governor-general's guarantee of safe passage in hand, Hugh Falconer permitted the brigade to remain on the tree-cloaked hill the rest of the day. Men and horses all needed rest. Tomorrow would be soon enough to continue north—at a much more leisurely pace. He did not intend to linger long in California even though, with the arrest of Don Carlos Chagres imminent, they were no longer in danger. It was time to go home. Falconer missed the mountains and the high plains. The high country had lost its allure for him with the death of Touches the Moon. But that was no longer the case. He was homesick.

  For the first time in over a week the mountain men built fires, cooked venison steaks over the crackling flames, and brewed up some coffee. They were short on such staples as coffee and tobacco, but Oregon Territory was only a fortnight away, and with luck—and some sharp bartering— they would be able to replenish their supplies by trading with the Hudson's Bay people. The trappers of the Hudson's Bay Company had been their keen rivals for many years, but after what they had been through, the mountain men weren't worried about that.

  "We're not carrying any traps," said Jenkins, as he and Falconer and Rube Holly sat around a campfire with night closing in around them. They were discussing the kind of welcome they could expect from the Britishers up north. "It ought to be clear as mother's milk to them that we're not trying to horn in on their fixin's."

  Falconer agreed. "And remember, they gave Jed Smith a helping hand."

  "Well, I for one don't trust them damned limeys," growled Rube Holly.

  Jenkins chuckled. "You don't trust anybody, old-timer."

  "No, I don't. That's the gospel truth. How d'you reckon I've gotten so long in the tooth and kept my topknot?"

  "Pure spite," answered Jenkins.

  Early the next morning, as the camp stirred in the pearly hue of dawn, Falconer found Eben Nall sitting against a tree with his leather-bound journal open across his knees.

  "Occurs to me," said Falconer, "that your wife stands to inherit a lot of land here in California. Does she want to stay, now that she has nothing more to fear from her father?"

  "She's still afraid of him. I told her it was all the same to me if we stayed. Whatever she wants to do. But it's a hard decision for her, and it will take some time."

  Falconer had his pipe packed and lit. Sitting on his heels, he puffed and pondered for a while. "You should know, Eben, that pretty soon there'll be a war fought for this country."

  "A war?"

  "The people here are wary of Americans, and with good reason, if you ask me. We took Texas away from Mexico, and folks here figure we'll try to do likewise with California. And they're probably right. We will. Our people are coming west, like they've done since the first one of them set foot on the eastern shore. They're not going to stop at the mountains. Mountains never stopped them before. Nothing will, until they get to the ocean. They see this land and they'll want it."

  He recalled his conversation with Benjamin Bonneville back at the Green River rendezvous. Bonneville had believed that it was the destiny of the United States to possess California, and Falconer had a strong hunch that there were a lot of people who agreed with him.

  Eben nodded. "I hadn't thought about that."

  "Maybe you should. You're an American, and being married to Sombra and living in that big, fancy hacienda won't change it. When war comes you'll be caught smack-dab in the middle."

  "So you think Sombra and I would be better off leaving."

  Falconer shrugged.

  "I was giving some thought to what you said about raising
horses," said Eben. "But the way I see it, the mare is rightfully yours. When I gave you that money pouch it was shy about a hundred dollars in gold, and unless you intend to go all the way to Connecticut to collect from Shagrue, you'll never see it again. So the mare is yours."

  "My Shoshone cayuse isn't much to look at," said Falconer, "but I'm right fond of him. You keep the mare."

  "But that means you're out a lot of money on my account. I can't accept that."

  "I don't care about the money. Got no use for it, really. Tell you what. If it makes you feel better, I'll take the first foal out of that mare."

  "Sure," said Eben, unconvinced. "You won't take it. Everything you've done for me, a whole string of horses wouldn't begin to repay . . ."

  But Falconer was no longer listening. Staring south, he rose slowly to his full height and removed the clay pipe from between his clenched teeth.

  Eben looked south too—and saw a black clot of riders coming toward them across the amber sea of sunlit grass.

  "I can't make them out," he said.

  "The vaqueros."

  "But I thought . . ."

  "So did I. But I guess it's not over quite yet."

  Chapter 41

  Remo called a halt several hundred yards shy of the wooded hill. He could see the mountain men moving among the trees. The smoke of their morning cookfires plumed into the powder-blue sky. How many of them were left? No more than twenty. Remo was aware of the damage ten of the Americans had done to the soldiers in the battle on the outskirts of Monterey. But he did not particularly care how many of his vaqueros had to die as long as he got Sombra back. He had no intension of getting himself killed. Not that he wasn't a brave man. But he had too much to live for now.

  He turned to Silas Nall. "Get down."

  "What are you going to do?" Now that the moment he had been dreading for days was upon him, Silas felt his courage disintegrating.

  A pistol materialized in Remo's hand. He aimed it at a spot between the American's eyes.

  Silas Nall dismounted.

  "Now," said Remo, "walk out in front of us. Go ten paces. Eleven, and I will shoot you. Call out to your brother."

  "I'm telling you, Eben won't . . ."