"Do as I tell you."
Silas looked into Remo's dead black eyes and waded through the tall grass ten paces toward the brigade's camp. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted his brother's name.
"Wagh!" exclaimed Rube Holly, standing alongside Eben Nall. "That's yore no-account brother, Eben!"
Eben nodded bleakly. He had not recognized Silas at first. His brother wore the clothes of a poor laborer in place of his buckskins. Eben scanned the mounted men sitting their horses behind Silas. Don Carlos Chagres was not among them.
"I don't see Don Carlos," he told Falconer.
"He's not there."
"What in tarnation is goin' on?" queried Rube Holly, exasperated.
"It's Remo," muttered Eben. "It's got to be."
"Spell it out," said Falconer.
"Remo wants the hacienda for himself," said Eben. "He wants Sombra, too. With Don Carlos out of the way, it's all his for the taking. But there's just one little problem. Without Sombra he can't do it."
"My Gawd," said Rube Holly. "You mean he wants to trade."
Eben studiously avoided the old-timer's one-eye sympathetic gaze.
Guts churning, he knew that at this moment he faced the most difficult decision of his life. He had little doubt what fate lay in store for Silas if he refused to give Sombra up. And, of course, he could not do that. He remembered the dream he'd had, populated by Don Carlos and Sombra and Remo, the latter with a pistol to the head of a kneeling man. In the dream the kneeling man had been him. In reality it was his brother with Remo's pistol to his head. My own kin, thought Eben. My own flesh and blood. The dream had become a terrible reality.
"I'm going out there," he said.
"What for?" asked Rube. "You know what he wants, and I know you ain't gonna do it."
"I've got to try to save my brother's life."
The old-timer grabbed him by the sleeve as he started to turn away. "This time yule get yoreself kilt, sure as shootin'. I cain't let you do it, Eben."
"You can't stop me."
Rube Holly was hurt. "Dammit, Eben. You've been like a son to me . . ."
Eben instantly regretted his tone of voice. "I'm sorry, Rube. But, don't you see, I have to try. I know he's not much good, but Silas is still my brother, for better or worse, and I'd have a tough time living with myself if I didn't do everything in my power to save his life."
"Then I'm going with you."
"Rube, stand by Sombra. Please."
Reluctantly, Rube said he would.
Eben collected the Appaloosa mare. He was checking the loads in his pistol and Kentucky rifle when Sombra came to him.
"I've got to go," he said, anticipating her words.
But he had misjudged her. Again. As he had the night he'd gone into Monterey to try to free Hugh Falconer from the presidio.
"I know," she said softly, maintaining a brave front. "That is why I love you, Eben Nall."
He took her in his arms and kissed her. It was a mistake. His resolve began to melt away. He hastily pulled back, climbed into the saddle, and did not look around at her as he rode down to the edge of the woods.
Falconer joined him there, astride his mean-spirited mountain mustang.
"I'm riding with you."
"No. He's my brother . . ."
"He's part of this brigade. That makes him my responsibility."
Eben considered that a weak argument. Silas had been the one man Falconer had not selected at the rendezvous.
"I've turned my back on a couple of men," continued Falconer, "and it doesn't suit me. I won't do it again."
"I'm not going out there to talk."
Falconer nodded. "Talk would be pointless."
Eben started to tell him that, in his studied opinion, there wasn't a chance in hell of their coming back alive.
But one look at Falconer's expression informed Eben that it wouldn't do any good. Falconer could calculate the odds as well as he, and he was still going to come along.
Stirrup to stirrup they rode out of the trees and across the sun-drenched valley toward the Gavilan vaqueros.
"Damned fool," muttered Silas, watching in disbelief as Falconer and his brother came on.
"You see?" asked Remo. "Your brother is not going to let you die, after all."
You don't understand, thought Silas. Eben is not coming out to rescue me, but to die with me.
"That makes him a better man than you, doesn't it?" said Remo.
"Yes," said Silas flatly. "He is a better man."
Of course, I knew that all along. That's why I envied him so . . .
He started running.
"Eben! Go back!"
Muttering a curse, Remo aimed his pistol at the fleeing American.
Eben kicked the Appaloosa into a leaping gallop. "Silas! Get down!"
Falconer pulled his pistol and fired. The range was still too great for any kind of accuracy, but his bullet struck Remo in the shoulder and ruined his aim. Remo's pistol discharged, but the shot went wide, missing Silas completely.
As Eben reached Silas he leaned in the saddle, reaching out a hand, intending to swing his brother up on the mare behind him.
Falconer steered his mustang in such a way that he placed himself between the Gavilan vaqueros and the Nall brothers—just as a dozen of Remo's men fired. Several bullets struck the mustang. Two hit Falconer, one gouging a bloody chunk out of his thigh before plowing into the leather of his saddle. The second hit him squarely in the left arm, inches below the shoulder point, tearing muscle and flesh but missing bone.
Eben had Silas up on the mare and was turning the Appaloosa as Falconer and the mountain mustang went down. Rifles began to speak from the wooded hill. The mountain men, marksmen all, plucked a few vaqueros out of their saddles. The rest of the Californios kept shooting from the decks of pivoting, snorting horses. A bullet struck Silas in the back. He slumped forward, his chin striking Eben's shoulder a painful blow, then began to slide sideways off the Appaloosa. Eben tried to reach back and catch him, but it was no use. Silas toppled limply into the tall grass.
Some of the vaqueros were swarming around Falconer now. He was their nearest and most vulnerable enemy. But Falconer wasn't nearly as vulnerable as they thought. He came up out of the grass with his rifle spitting flame and death. At this close range the bullet's impact lifted a vaquero completely out of his saddle. The man's horse ran out from under him. He hit the ground dead. Another vaquero was swept off his horse as Falconer used the empty rifle like a club. The rifle's stock shattered and so did the man's skull. Dropping the rifle, Falconer launched himself at the man's horse as it swept past him. But a third Californio came out of his saddle, the blade of his big belduque flashing in the sun. They collided in midair, went down in a tangle. Falconer plunged his Green River knife into the man's chest with such force that he could hear the rib cage crack like brittle twigs. A bullet fired at close range tugged at Falconer's buckskin hunting shirt. He whirled, flipped the bloodied knife, and hurled it at the Gavilan man who had just tried to shoot him in the back. The vaquero clutched at the knife, buried to the hilt just below his sternum. Falconer lunged forward with a snarl like a panther's, dragging the dying man off his horse with one hand while clutching the saddle's horn with the other. The horse was on the run, and Falconer had a moment's difficulty as he tried to haul himself into the saddle with one wounded arm. By a supreme effort he got aboard.
Eben checked and turned the Appaloosa as his brother fell. Ignoring the bullets burning the air around him, he bent down in the saddle until his shoulder touched the horn, reaching for Silas, shouting his brother's name above the din of battle. Silas lifted a hand, but he was too weak to lift himself off the ground. His body felt numb and cold. His world was turning black. Before he could come to terms with the fact that he was dying he breathed his last ragged breath.
At that instant Remo's horse plowed into the Appaloosa. The impact almost jarred Eben out of the saddle. As he straightened, Remo lashed out with a kn
ife that looked as long as a cavalry saber from Eben's perspective. It wasn't that long, of course—but it was long enough to slash Eben's chest. The cut wasn't deep, but it hurt like hell. Eben felt rivulets of hot blood on his belly. The only weapon left to him was his own knife. He groped for it, managed somehow to parry Remo's next stroke. The blades clashed. The horses themselves seemed to be locked in mortal combat. The Appaloosa bared her big blunt teeth and drew first blood. The vaquero's horse reared suddenly.
Remo had been born around horses, had known how to ride before he could walk, but this time he was caught by surprise. For an instant he had to focus on staying in the saddle, and in that instant he left himself open. Eben drove his knife to the hilt into Remo's side. Remo came out of the saddle then, flipped backward off his pony's haunches, and hit the ground hard, landing on the knife. The tip of the blade ruptured his heart. In one blessedly brief explosion of indescribable pain, Remo died.
Indian war whoops caught Eben's attention. He looked up to see the brigade charging across the valley, rifles and pistols spewing flame and trailing powder smoke. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Realizing he was in the crossfire, Eben ducked low in the saddle. But the Gavilan vaqueros were finished. Remo was dead, along with a dozen of their companions. The devil with the tawny beard had killed four of their friends in a minute's time. The charge of the other mountain men was the last straw.
They turned and ran.
Epilogue
Summer 1839. (Eighteen months later.)
When Eben Nall emerged from the soddy he cast his eyes first in the direction of the corrals. The Appaloosa mare came to the pole gate and whickered at him. There were a dozen other horses in the corrals, as well as a colt, but Eben always sought out the mare first, and the mare always seemed to be watching the soddy in the mornings, waiting for Eben to appear.
After counting the horses, Eben swung his gaze to a black speck moving across the sun-browned plains, way off on the other side of the Platte River. The morning sun turned the river's shallows into ribbons of sparkling silver. It was going to be a hot summer day. A dry breeze made the gray-green limbs of the cottonwood trees along the river and over by the corrals flicker and dance.
Eben stepped back inside and fetched his Sharps rifle from the pegs over the hearth. He tried to get away with it without Sombra noticing, not wanting to alarm her unduly, but she saw him, and her eyes asked a silent question.
"Rider coming." He said it casually, as though he expected no trouble to come of it. But out here on the lonesome, windswept vastness of the high plains you just never could be sure. A man had to be careful.
The baby in the crib was stirring, making cooing sounds that never failed to tug at Eben's heart-strings. He smiled. I'll be right glad when my son is old enough to help me take care of this place, look after things, and look after his mother most of all.
Eben stepped back outside and watched the rider coming on. There was something familiar about the man. Eben decided he knew the rider, even before the man was close enough to identify.
When the horseman was, finally, close enough to recognize, Eben Nall grinned ear to ear, leaned his Sharps against the wall of the soddy, and went out to meet him. He waited on the southern bank of the Platte as Hugh Falconer guided his mustang across the shallows.
"I'm glad to see you're still above snakes, Hugh," said Eben, reaching up a hand.
Falconer shook the proffered hand. Eben noticed his grip was still like a steel vise. The man hadn't changed. Same tawny beard, same lean, whiplash frame encased in fringed and beaded buckskin, same steely gaze. Some things, decided Eben, like the mountains and the sky and Hugh Falconer, always stayed the same.
"How's Sombra?" asked Falconer.
"She's fine. I've got somebody else I'd like for you to meet."
Eben took him inside and introduced him to his son. "We named him Reuben."
Falconer smiled as he picked the gurgling infant boy up to hold him aloft. Eben thought he saw a twinge of sadness on the mountain man's face. He didn't think it was because Rube Holly was dead, but rather a deep-seated regret on Falconer's part that he and Touches the Moon had never had children.
"Rube would be right proud," said Falconer.
"Heard anything about Luck?"
Falconer shook his head. "I checked at Fort Bridger, but nobody there has seen her. And she's not back with her own people, either."
Eben sighed. He was worried about Luck and disappointed that Falconer had not found a trace of her. If Hugh Falconer couldn't find her, nobody could. Rube Holly had died in his sleep six months ago, and his death had hit Luck really hard. It seemed that she had disappeared off the face of the earth, and Eben was afraid, that having lost the will to live, she had wandered off to die alone.
They went out to the corrals, and Eben pointed to the spindly-legged colt nuzzling the Appaloosa mare.
"There's your horse," he said.
Falconer declared the colt a fine-looking animal. "Had any trouble with Indians?"
"They've tried to steal my ponies a time or two," said Eben. "A couple of 'em are buried behind that hill yonder. Pawnees, I think."
"But nothing you can't handle."
Eben smiled. "No." He looked at the horses again. "In a couple of years I'll start selling off a few head."
"They'll fetch a handsome price," predicted Falconer. "Whatever happened to that journal you were writing, Eben?"
"I sold it."
"Sold it? To who?"
"One day a man showed up at my door. Said he was from a publishing house back east. Wanted to publish my journal. Offered me a lot of money and, well, I needed funds. I had Sombra to think of, and she had just told me she was pregnant with little Reuben."
"Now I wonder how this easterner found out about your journal."
"Captain Bonneville, of course. He talked to just about every last one of us who came back from California. I didn't tell him about the journal, but I reckon somebody else did."
Falconer nodded. "He must have guessed you weren't about to sell it to him. But he wanted to know what was in it. Anything of use to him concerning California."
"Sorry, Hugh."
"Don't worry about it. In the long run it won't change anything."
Eben agreed, and took some consolation in knowing that, journal or no, Bonneville and men like him were committed to seizing California and would make an attempt to do so sooner or later.
Falconer stayed for the noontime meal. Afterward, he packed his clay pipe with honeydew tobacco as he and Eben stood in a ribbon of shade against the soddy's front wall. Eben invited him to stay for a few days, but Falconer declined. He did not offer any information regarding where he had been or where he was going. Eben desperately wanted to know these things, but knew better than to ask. Every few months Hugh Falconer swung by to check on him and Sombra, stayed a few hours, then moved on. Eben was grateful for that. Falconer wasn't the only one—last spring Gus Jenkins and Taggart had showed up at his door. Like Falconer, they seemed to be drifting aimlessly now that the fur trade was dead, looking for something, a purpose in life beyond just living, perhaps. Eben felt fortunate indeed to have a home, a family, and a dream.
They stood there in the shade for a long spell, not talking much, and finally Falconer stirred himself, knocking the spent tobacco out of the pipe bowl and grinding it into the dust beneath his heel.
"I'll be back next spring for the colt," he told Eben.
"You'd better. I like to pay my debts."
Falconer climbed aboard the mustang. The horse, mused Eben, looked every inch as mean as the one Falconer had ridden on the expedition to California. It also looked like it could run all week and then twice on Sunday.
"You don't owe me anything," said Falconer. "Fact is, I owe you."
"How do you figure?" asked Eben.
"Before we went to California I'd decided I couldn't trust another living soul. You and Gus and Rube and Taggart and all the rest proved me wrong."
Eben saw the opening he had been waiting for. "But you're still searching for something, aren't you?"
"Sure." Falconer took a long look around, at the soddy, the corrals, the murmuring river. "A reason to put down roots, and a place like this to do it."
"You'll find a reason. Because you deserve it."
Falconer smiled pensively. "Well, a man can dream, can't he?"
He turned the mustang sharply, splashed across the shallows, and was soon just a black dot in the vastness of the plains. Eben Nall watched him until he was out of sight. Sombra came out of the soddy, the baby in her arms. Eben put his arm around her and thanked his lucky stars, like he did every morning when he woke up with her by his side.
Falconer never once looked back. Eben hadn't expected him to. Hugh Falconer wasn't that kind.
Look for these reissued ebook titles by Jason Manning:
HIGH COUNTRY SERIES
High Country
Green River Rendezvous
Battle of the Teton Basin
FLINTLOCK SERIES
Flintlock
The Border Captains
Gone To Texas
TEXAS SERIES
The Black Jacks
Texas Bound
The Marauders
MOUNTAIN MAN SERIES
Mountain Passage
Mountain Massacre
Mountain Courage
Mountain Vengeance
Mountain Honor
Mountain Renegade
FALCONER SERIES
Falconer's Law
Promised Land
American Blood
ETHAN PAYNE SERIES
Frontier Road
Trail Town
Last Chance
Gun Justice
Gunmaster
The Outlaw Trail
Falconer's Law Page 27
