Falconer's Law

by Jason Manning

  "Then why not go to California alone?"

  Falconer did not answer at once. He fed a few sticks into the fire. Bonneville took a sip of whiskey, and waited. He knew better than to press this man.

  "I heard Jedediah Smith had some trouble with the Mexicans," was Falconer's eventual reply.

  Benjamin Bonneville was acquainted with Jed Smith's previous foray to the Pacific coast. Smith had journeyed from the Great Salt Lake into the desert, seeking untrapped beaver country. What he found instead was sand and sagebrush, the threat of starvation and constant, agonizing thirst. He and his men lost most of their horses in the desert crossing, and they might never have been seen or heard from again but for the hospitality of friendly Mojave Indians. By then Smith had abandoned all hope of finding new trapping ground. He'd had no intention of going to California originally, yet the Mojaves convinced him that he and his party would stand a better chance of survival heading west than if they tried to retrace their steps across the desert. The Mojaves had long enjoyed a profitable trading relationship with the Spaniards, and then the Mexicans, and it was along one of their trade routes that Smith marched west. A few weeks later, he and his bedraggled brigade arrived in the mission country of southern California, only to be arrested and detained in San Diego by order of the governor-general.

  The captains of American merchant ships anchored in San Diego harbor came to the rescue, convincing the authorities that Smith and his men were trappers, not spies. The mountain men were released upon their word that they would depart California immediately. But Smith broke his word, wintering in the valley of the San Joaquin, knowing he could not survive the snowbound passes of the Sierra in January.

  The crossing proved difficult enough the following summer. Smith and his men failed in their first attempt, losing a number of horses on the treacherous high country trails. Smith took only two men with him on his second try, leaving the balance of the brigade encamped on the western slope of the Sierras. It was a close thing, a life-and-death struggle, but Smith finally reached Bear Lake. Gathering together eighteen brave men, he started back to rescue the eleven left stranded in California.

  Inexplicably, the Mojaves were hostile now. They fell upon Smith's party, killing ten men. When Smith reached California the second time he was not only an illegal but also a fugitive, as he had broken his word to the authorities there. He was arrested again, and again a Yankee sea captain negotiated his release. Once more Smith gave his solemn promise to leave California and never return, and yet he broke his word this time, too. Locating his original brigade, he wintered in the Sacramento Valley before escaping north along the coast, making for the Columbia River. Bad luck dogged him—again he and his men ran afoul of hostile Indians. Warriors of the Kelawatset tribe ambushed and killed fifteen trappers. Only Smith and three others survived. They found safe haven at Fort Vancouver, a Hudson's Bay Company outpost. Though the Hudson's Bay men had long been bitter rivals of American fur trappers, they gave Smith enough in the way of provisions to make it back to the United States.

  Bonneville nodded. "In two trips Jedediah Smith took twenty-nine men west. Twenty-six of them lost their lives. But they weren't killed by the Californios, I hasten to point out."

  "Maybe the Indians just beat 'em to it," was Falconer's laconic observation.

  "Shame about Jed Smith," mused Bonneville. "It was said he planned to make detailed maps of the country he had seen on those expeditions. Instead, he set off down the Santa Fe Trail, hoping to recoup some of the money he had lost. After three years of wandering around in the far west he was flat broke. The Comanches caught him out alone, searching for a water hole, and curled his toes."

  "They say he got off only one shot, but managed to kill the chief of the Comanches with it."

  "He would have performed a great service for his country had he completed those maps."

  Falconer squinted suspiciously at Bonneville through the blue, aromatic pipe smoke.

  "Just what are you after, Benjamin?"

  "It's not so much what I am after, Hugh. It's what the United States is after."

  "What might that be?" Falconer had a hunch he really didn't want to know the answer.

  "California."

  Falconer extended a hand. "Hand over that tongue oil, and then start talking."

  Chapter 6

  "As I mentioned before," said Bonneville, "I have not resigned my commission from the United States Army. In fact, it was Andy Jackson, the president himself, who talked several New York money men into financing my expedition."

  "They don't expect a return on their investment, I take it, since your trading post has been a failure."

  Bonneville made a dismissive gesture. "That's of little consequence to anyone. But I must correct you on one point, Hugh. Those gentlemen invested in the future of our young nation, and, yes, they fully expect a return on that investment. A return which cannot be calculated in hairy bank notes, but rather in acquiring for the United States what is rightfully hers. I mean California, of course."

  Falconer's expression was one of wry amusement. "Now how do you figure the United States has a right to California, Benjamin?"

  The query seemed to astonish Bonneville. "I would have thought it was obvious to everyone."

  "I'm just slow, I reckon."

  "Look here." Bonneville was deadly serious now. "Mexico is too weak to hold on to California. We must have Pacific ports. The truly fabulous wealth in this world lies across that great ocean, in the Orient. If we do not possess the west coast we will never be a great nation. We will never achieve our true potential as a power to be reckoned with in this world. If we do not seize California, the British or the Russians will."

  Again Falconer fell silent, pulling on his tawny beard and gazing pensively into the fire. This time Bonneville could not check his impatience.

  "You could do your country a great service, Hugh. Find a better route to California than the one Jed Smith used, and bring back accurate maps."

  Falconer shook his head. "I'll tell you, Benjamin, I don't much care for all this talk about the Mexicans owning this and the United States owning that. I mean, I just don't think that way."

  "What, may I ask, prompts you to go at all?"

  Falconer pointed with his chin at the snowcapped peaks, ghostly silver in the starlight. "Used to think I never wanted to leave these mountains. But now I think I need to get away for a spell."

  "Touches the Moon," said Bonneville softly. "My sincerest condolences. I know she meant a lot to you."

  "More than I ever knew—until she was gone. Thought it over all winter. Figured I'd see what California looks like. I'd go alone if I thought one man could make the trip. But I don't think one man alone would stand much of a chance. So I'll take along twenty or thirty men—good men, men to ride the river with."

  "Don't take Sir William," advised Bonneville dryly.

  "Why not?"

  "Oh, you didn't know? Sir William and I have a lot in common. He is no more retired from his army than I am from mine."

  "You're pulling my leg."

  "On the contrary. I'm serious. He still holds the king's commission. His job is to find out what us colonials are up to out here."

  "I'll be damned."

  "For a hundred years and more the British have reigned supreme on the high seas. They've had the cream of world trade right here." Bonneville held his cupped hands together. "Lately we've started to horn in on that monopoly. Those New England sea dogs of ours have been popping up all over the place and taking business away from the limeys. The last thing they want is for us to own any Pacific ports. That's why we'll have a fight on our hands for the Oregon Territory. And why they've got their sights set on California."

  "You folks might be underestimating the Californios. I reckon they'll put up a fight."

  "Certainly. But the question is, How much of a fight? Our sea captains have provided us with some information, primarily regarding coastal towns and harbor defenses and the like. B
ut we need to know more, much more. How strong are the Mexicans in California? Will the native tribes rise up against them when the time comes? Do they have inland strongholds? How well do they patrol the western slopes of the Sierras? The mountain passes—are they guarded?"

  "Sounds to me like you're planning on a war."

  "Oh, war will come. Just a matter of time, Hugh."

  Falconer surrendered the jug of sour mash, now nearly empty. Bonneville jostled it ruefully. Although Falconer had consumed plenty of the whiskey, he was stone-cold sober as he spoke.

  "I think I've heard enough, Benjamin. Maybe you and your government can own the trees and the rivers and maybe even the mountains, but you can't own me, any more than you could own the wind."

  "It's our government."

  "I live by my own laws, and bow to no one."

  "Be reasonable . . ."

  "No. I got away from people so I didn't have to be reasonable. Sorry, Benjamin, but I'm not your man."

  "Well, then." Benjamin shrugged in good-natured resignation. With an easy smile he returned the jug to Falconer. "Here, my friend. Finish it off, with my compliments. Let me wish you the best of luck on your expedition. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."

  "I found what I was looking for, and lost it. I guess I'm just killing time now."

  "Shoot straight's the word."

  Falconer watched Bonneville walk away. He was suspicious. Bonneville had gone to great lengths in trying to win him over—and then given up too easily by halves. Falconer figured Bonneville had an alternative plan, something to fall back on. What could it be?

  Responding to his brother's summons, Eben Nall entered the skin lodge and stopped dead in his tracks. By the lurid, flickering light of a small fire in a circle of stones beneath the lodge's smoke-hole he could see Silas and an Indian woman, naked on the buffalo robes, writing in a passionate embrace.

  Thinking back on it later, Eben wondered why he was so embarrassed. After all the cavorting Rube and Luck had done in a hundred night camps he should have been inured to such a scene. Of course, Rube and his Nez Perce squaw had always found a modicum of privacy between their blankets.

  Silas looked up and grinned at his slack-jawed brother. "Damn, Eben," he chuckled breathlessly, as he withdrew from the woman and sprawled on his back, his lank body glistening with sweat.

  "I'm—I'm sorry," babbled Eben. "You sent word . . ."

  "Sure, I asked you to come see me. Just didn't think you'd come so quick."

  "I'll come back later." Eben turned to go.

  Silas laughed and jumped to his feet. "No. Stay. It ain't nothin' I can't finish later."

  Eben had never seen a completely naked woman before. He couldn't help staring. Propped up on her elbows, legs spread in lewd abandon, she invited him to look. She was young, with a firm body, pert dark-tipped breasts, flat belly, shapely legs. One thing marred the picture—an ugly scar deformed her nose.

  "This here's Annie," said Silas. "Never could pronounce her Injun name. As you can see, Annie's a shameless hussy." He scooped up a blanket and threw it to her. "Cover yourself, before my kid brother rips a stitch."

  The woman stood up and did as she was told, although she took her sweet time doing it, and Eben realized she was teasing him. Or maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe she was trying to seduce him. Eben knew what the cut nose meant. Rube Holly had spent all winter sharing everything he knew about Indians with his young protege. And Rube knew a great deal.

  Silas searched for and found a whiskey jug. Shaking it, he cursed a blue streak to find it empty. "Go find Portugee," he told the woman. "Get me more whiskey." When she held out a hand to him, he scowled darkly. "I ain't got no more damned money. Tell him I'll pay him tomorrow. My credit's good with Portugee."

  Once again cutting her eyes at Eben, the woman dropped the blanket, donned a buckskin dress in a leisurely manner, and left the skin lodge.

  "You got an eyeful, didn't you, brother?" asked Silas. He laughed, but this time it had a raw edge. "Trying to make me jealous."

  "She's Arapaho, isn't she?"

  "By God, ain't you the savvy mountain man. How'd you know?"

  "The cutnose sign. Isn't that what Arapaho men do to those of their women who are unfaithful?"

  Silas shrugged. "Why should I care about that?"

  "I know you. You hate to lose."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing." Eben could tell Silas was getting hot under the collar. He wanted to let the matter drop, but Silas was the type who never could resist picking at a scab.

  "Listen here, brother. If you're trying to tell me I shouldn't trust her, I don't. If she wants to run off with another man, so be it. I don't care. There are plenty of squaws to be had. Even you could have one, if you wanted. But then you wouldn't know what to do with a woman, would you? Being a virgin still."

  "Shut up, Silas."

  "Just don't stand there and try to tell me about women." Smirking, Silas turned away. He pulled on some leggins, then knelt to stir up the fire.

  "What did you want to see me about, anyway?" asked Eben.

  "Hear tell you're going to California with Hugh Falconer."

  "I'm not surprised you know Falconer's going over the mountains. But how did you know I was going with him?"

  "Word gets around. It's true, ain't it? You are, aren't you?"

  Eben nodded, wary.

  "I want to go along with you," said Silas.

  "What for?"

  "What for? That's a stupid damned question. For one thing, California's got the best wine and the warmest women. And you know how much I fancy both of those."

  Eben shook his head. "There's more to it than that."

  "Sure there is. California is rich."

  "I don't know about that. No one's sure how the beaver . . ."

  "Don't mean beaver. I'm talking about gold and silver. Those people got so much gold and silver they don't know what to do with it all."

  "I doubt if those stories are true."

  "I'm telling you they are," snapped Silas. "I wasn't asking for your opinion, anyway."

  "Well, as for going along, you'll have to ask Hugh Falconer."

  Silas stood face-to-face with his brother. "I figured you'd put in a good word for me."

  "It wouldn't help. Falconer's the kind to make up his own mind."

  "You owe me that much, brother. I lost everything but the clothes on my back on account of you."

  "On account of me?" That rubbed Eben the wrong way. Seldom had he stood up to his older brother—whenever he'd tried when they were children Silas had always made him pay—but this time his resentment boiled to the surface. "Maybe you shouldn't have bet against your own brother."

  "You got lucky, that's all." Silas turned away. "Hell, Eben, I even lost my horse."

  "You can have Sixkiller's stallion."

  Silas Nall's eyes lit up. "I could win some races with that critter. Yes, sir. I could be a rich man tomorrow with that black stallion."

  "Fine," said Eben disgusted. "The stallion is yours, then."

  Silas looped an arm around Eben's shoulders. "I'll pay you a fair price for him—once I've won a race or two."

  Eben shrugged off his brother's arm. "Somehow I doubt that."

  "I wonder where Annie is with that damned whiskey . . ."

  Eben turned to go.

  "Hey," said Silas. "Stay a spell. You might learn something." He leered.

  Eben just stared, shaking his head.

  "What about Falconer?" asked Silas.

  "You ask him," said Eben on his way out of the skin lodge. "I reckon the stallion makes us even."

  Chapter 7

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF EBEN NALL

  July 13, 1837. The rendezvous is coming to a close. Many of the traders have turned their wagons around and headed east, loaded now with furs and hides. They must transport their hauls safely across the Great Plains. I wish them luck. I am told that every year one or two of them do
n't make it.

  Most of the Indians have also left the camp. Generally they go empty-handed, having lost everything in games of chance, to which they have no resistance. The same can be said for some of the mountain men as well, though more often than not, I have noticed, it is the Indian who winds up holding the short end of the stick. I suppose it is the whiskey, which renders them fool-headed and easy prey.

  All were agreed that next year's rendezvous should be held at this same location. But how many will come? Will there even be a market for beaver plews next year? Some of the traders told me they would not be back. The risks outweigh the profits. One predicted we would be lucky to get a dollar a plew next season. Such depressing forecasts have persuaded a number of trappers to call it quits. Some are going north, into Canada. They will have trouble with the Hudson's Bay people there. But trouble never gives these men pause. Canada, they say, is still wild, and a long way from becoming civilized. I feel sorry for these men, in a way. They did not fit in society, and so they came out here, but now society is closing in on them again, and they are looking for a place to escape to. Others are bending their steps south, to live and trade and hunt among the Mexicans. Thirty of us are going west, to California, with Hugh Falconer.

  I am sorry to see the end of this great event, this rendezvous. Even though I am excited by the prospects of the California expedition, a melancholy intuition that an era is coming to a close plagues me. A grand, free way of life is vanishing before my eyes. The world will never see the likes of it again.

  I was told to be ready to leave tomorrow, and the realization that I would soon be parting company with Rube Holly was added cause for melancholy. I had never completely grasped the depths of my feelings for the old man. He is a hard fellow to know—moody, irascible, crude at times, and occasionally eccentric. But no man could ask for a truer friend. Rube would lay down his life for me, and I for him, without a moment's hesitation. He is a surrogate father to me, and I am eternally grateful for all he has taught me. If I survive the journey to California it will be on account of the wiles and wisdom of Rube Holly, which he has so generously shared . . .