Falconer's Law

by Jason Manning

  Even without the snow the passage would have been an arduous undertaking. The valley that I had stumbled upon proved to be a short one, and its western outlet was a saddle of granite boulders wedged between a pair of lofty peaks. Trying to find a way through or over these boulders was no easy task, and we lost two more horses in the attempt. One of them was carrying Rufus Fuller when it slipped and fell. Both man and horse suffered a broken leg. The horse was put out of its misery. Although Fuller had multiple fractures and was in tremendous pain, we could not do him the same favor, even though he begged us to do so. He knew, as we all did, that he would be crippled for the rest of his life and probably would never walk again. Doc Maguire did the best he could trying to set the broken bones, but the damage was severe, as nine hundred pounds of horse had rolled over the leg. Our only medicine was a jug of whiskey. A travois was built, but more often than not we had to rely on four strong volunteers to carry Fuller, as the terrain was too rough for riding.

  On the western side of the saddle we discovered a modest stream, which we followed into yet another high valley. We hopscotched from one valley to the next for two weeks. All the while the snow fell and the frozen winds pierced us to the bone. It was so cold at times that a mist of ice particles could be seen floating in the air. On the rare occasion that the sun broke through the clouds, its light made this mist sparkle like a rainbow of diamonds. We had to take care not to lay bare hand to metal, as one would freeze fast to the other. It was so cold that I saw trees split apart, as though they had been struck by invisible lightning. We had several cases of frostbite. Sometimes an icy hail fell from the sky, piercing like needles. Our blankets and beards were white with frost, and at night spittle would freeze on one's lips.

  To contribute to our anguish there was precious little game to hunt This was a keenly felt disappointment; after many hungry days in the sagebrush country we had all anticipated good hunting in the mountains. But the early snow had apparently driven most of the game to lower elevations. Our provisions were nearly exhausted, and all of us were haunted by the fear of becoming snowbound prisoners in this high country. I have heard stories of men in such situations resorting to cannibalism to survive, but of course in our case we had the horses.

  After the first week in the Sierras some of the men petitioned Falconer to let them kill one or two of the ponies so that the company could have some fresh meat. The two horses lost to broken legs had been consumed earlier, and I must confess that horse meat becomes quite palatable after weeks of dried venison. The plan was that all the men would draw sticks, and the two who drew the shortest sticks would each surrender one of his horses to the communal cooking pot. It testifies to the desperate nature of our predicament that Falconer approved the scheme. I was resolved to give up one of my packhorses if I chanced to draw a short stick. The Appaloosa mare, of course, was completely out of the question. But, as luck would have it, I did not have to.

  We saw no sign of Bearclaw Johnson, and it became the consensus that a grizzly had finally got the better of him. Johnson was the fourth man the brigade had lost—the other three had fallen victim to the Digger Indians. Those are not bad numbers, I suppose, considering what this company has endured since leaving the Green River valley three months ago.

  After a fortnight in the Sierras mutiny reared its ugly head. Prompted by their fear of being trapped by the snows, several men began to campaign for our turning back. I hate to admit it, but one of those men was my brother, Silas. I had not thought it possible that he could have embarrassed me any more than he already had, but I was wrong. Falconer dismissed their demands out of hand, at which point, according to what Silas told me, the conspirators planned to desert the brigade and go on their own stick. This would have violated the promise every last man had given Falconer in the beginning. Each of us had given our solemn word to stick with the brigade until we got to California. Personally, I was willing to bid farewell to Silas and let him go his own way. But Falconer would not permit it to happen. He let it be known that he would hunt down and kill any deserter. That struck me as a bit severe, but Rube defended our booshway, explaining that if Falconer were to let a few men break the rules now he would catch pure hell trying to keep the rest of the company in line the next time we got into a little trouble.

  After Falconer's warning, I heard no more about desertion from Silas or any of his fellow malcontents. No one wanted Falconer on his trail. Our booshway strikes me as a very decent fellow, but there is a dark side to him, and I do not doubt he would track a deserter down and slit his throat without blinking an eye. Hugh Falconer is not a man to cross.

  I for one never for a moment doubted we would survive this new ordeal and make it to the western slope of the Sierras, and today, the twenty-first day of October, we have before us the splendid panorama of fabled California stretching as far as the eye can see, a beautiful tapestry of forested hills and tawny plains, all caressed with sunlight and warm breezes.

  We have made it, and all our troubles lie behind us . . .

  Chapter 17

  In the foothills on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada, Hugh Falconer searched for and found an ideal spot for a camp, where there was plenty of timber, several spring-fed creeks, and meadows of golden wild oats upon which the horses could feast. It was his intention to encamp the brigade in this spot for several days. One reason was obvious: the condition of the horses, gaunt and exhausted after the mountain passage, during which, because of the heavy snows, good graze had been almost nonexistent.

  There was another reason, and that night Falconer addressed all the men to explain.

  "I realize all of you are eager to see what this country has to offer," he said, "but for now most of you will stay put right here. Tomorrow I will send out three hunting parties, two men in each. The rest of you are not to stray more than a mile from this camp."

  This announcement triggered some disgruntled muttering. Falconer watched and listened for a moment, trying to gauge by their initial reactions the degree of difficulty he would have enforcing the order. He didn't blame them for being upset. These men had been through hell to get this far, and now that they were here he was keeping them on a short rope. Which was why he was about to do what he seldom did—explain himself. He figured he owed them that much.

  "I want all of you to keep this in mind: we are no longer in the United States. This isn't our country. It's part and parcel of the Republic of Mexico. Most of you know what happened to Jedediah Smith and his men when they came through here some years back. Since then, nothing has happened between the United States and Mexico that would lead me to believe we would get a more pleasant reception than Smith got. We have to walk soft and keep our eyes open. What we don't want is to start a damned war."

  "I ain't never much cared who claims to own what," was one mountain man's resentful response. "I'm accustomed to goin' where I please, when I please, and doin' what I please, the devil take the cost."

  Falconer suppressed a smile. This was precisely the sentiment he had expressed to Benjamin Bonneville months ago, back at the rendezvous, when Bonneville had tried to recruit him as, in essence, a scout and spy for a California-coveting United States of America. But no one saw the twitch of his lips beneath his tawny beard. His dark brown eyes were stern.

  "This time you'll do things my way," he replied curtly. "If there's anybody here who doesn't cotton to that, he had better say so now, and we'll settle right here."

  He took the time to look each one of them squarely in the eye. No one spoke up.

  "When we find the first settlement, Gus Jenkins and I will go in alone," continued Falconer. "I'm taking Gus because he speaks a little of the lingo. I want the people to know we mean them no harm."

  "What if the two of you don't come back?" asked Eben.

  "Then I suggest you all find a way to get back across those mountains. If you can't do that, head north. If Gus and I are arrested, I don't want anybody trying to cut us loose either."

  Eben sca
nned the faces of the other mountain men seated or standing around him. Their expressions confirmed what he suspected—none of them could easily turn their backs on Falconer and Jenkins if this worst-case scenario became reality.

  The next morning, Eben and Rube Holly saddled their best horses at daybreak. They were one of the three hunting parties Falconer was sending out. Falconer came by to see them off. He was staying close to camp, and Eben understood why; Falconer wanted to make sure none of the others surrendered to their desires and wandered off to explore this strange new world.

  "I reckon you two know you're hunting for more than fresh meat."

  Rube grinned. "You ain't got to spell it out for us, Hugh. Iffen we see any sign of other folks we'll let you know." He tapped his false eye—an act that made Eben cringe every time he did it. "We'll keep our three eyes peeled."

  They headed due west out of camp. The morning was clear and fresh. A sultry breeze riffled the tall grass. The sun and the wind and the warmth fueled Eben's high spirits. He was beguiled by the pristine beauty surrounding him. Indeed, it seemed like a paradise on earth, especially after the ordeals of their desert crossing and mountain passage. There was no evidence that anyone had ever passed this way before; the land appeared as unsullied by human hands as it must have at the moment of God's creation.

  They had gone but a handful of miles from the camp when they spotted several deer at the edge of a bosquet of oaks. Spying the pair of horsemen, the deer plunged back into the shadowy depths of the trees. Eben and Rube turned into the bosquet; dismounting, they tethered their horses, primed their rifles, and ventured deeper into the woods, spreading out but keeping each other in view.

  Rube was the first to spot a target and shoot. The crash of his rifle was shockingly loud in the sylvan setting. His aim was true, and a moment later he and Eben stood over a ten-point buck, shot through the heart.

  "By thunder there'll be some good eatin' tonight!" crowed Rube. "Don't know 'bout you, boy, but I'm right tired of feelin' my belly button rubbin' up agin my spine."

  Eben nodded, and had to spit, he was salivating so at the thought of hot venison steaks.

  "You go on and git one, too," urged Rube. "I'll bring up the horses."

  Eben went on alone. A hundred yards farther on he heard a telltale rustle and caught a fleeting glimpse of a deer running through the trees. Stalking the animal, he found himself on a slope that grew ever more steep. To his left rose the rocky spine of a ridge—and there, briefly silhouetted against the sky, stood his prey! Eben brought the Kentucky rifle to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. He had the deer dead to rights. But when the powder smoke cleared there was no sign of the creature. Eben's heart plummeted. How could he have missed such an easy shot? Reloading, he scrambled to the top of the ridge, found spots of blood on the stone where the deer had been standing. So he hadn't missed, after all! At least that was something. But now he had to track the wounded animal down.

  Below him was a ravine, filled with boulders and thicket. Eben doubted he would ever be able to locate the deer if it was down there, but he proceeded to try. A year in the high country with Rube Holly had wrought a marked improvement in his vision; he spotted traces of bright red blood, on the face of a rock here, on waist-high blades of grass there. He spent an hour struggling over, under, and through the tangle, pausing often to listen hopefully for some sound that would provide him with a clue to his prey's whereabouts. No luck.

  Then, when he was on the verge of giving up, the ravine widened and cleared, becoming a small valley squeezed between steep, rock-strewn hills perhaps four hundred feet from rim to rim. And just as Eben broke free of the thicket, he saw the deer, a hundred feet straight ahead, tottering through the tall grass. He raised the rifle, intending to put the suffering creature down, but before he could fire the deer collapsed.

  Eben broke into a loping run. When he reached the deer, he was glad to see the animal was already dead. The bullet had struck well behind the heart—in essence, it had been a gut shot, and Eben silently cursed himself for being such a poor hand with a rifle. He did not like to see any animal suffer, especially when that suffering was the result of his own incompetence. Rube Holly had poked fun at him for his qualms when they had first begun to trap beaver. It had seemed to Eben that setting their Number 10 traps in such a way that the caught beaver drowned was a distinctly inhumane procedure. Fishing a hundred-odd dead beavers from the ice-cold shallows of mountain ponds had not served to harden Eben's heart to any perceptible degree.

  Eben took a good long look around and tried to calculate how far he had strayed from the bosquet where the hunt had commenced. At least a half mile. Now he was confronted by the daunting prospect of having to carry the deer back. Even if Rube Holly was tracking him, it would be next to impossible to negotiate the horses through the ravine, clogged as it was with boulders and rampant brush. Passing through that stretch had worn Eben to a frazzle. He wiped sweat from his furrowed brow. But nothing, he told himself, was ever gained by postponing unpleasant business.

  Laying down the Kentucky rifle, he bent to gather up the deer's forelegs and pulled them over one shoulder, then reached back to collect the hind legs and hauled them over the other shoulder. Doubled over, the deer balanced on his back, he managed to retrieve his rifle from the ground. A groan escaped him as he straightened. The kill was a young buck, probably weighing in at less than two hundred pounds, but it felt ten times that heavy to Eben.

  "One step at a time," he muttered without enthusiasm.

  As he took that first step he heard a loud crack! and something whipped through the tall grass in front of him. An instant later he heard the gunshot.

  Somebody was shooting at him!

  His first reaction, quite irrational, was anger. What damn fool would take a shot at him? His first thought was that it had to be someone from the brigade, maybe a member of one of the other hunting parties. It was a perfectly ridiculous notion, but Eben was working under the false assumption that the only human beings within one hundred miles of this particular spot were the mountain men who had accompanied him across the Sierras.

  His gaze swung to the top of the hill to the west. There, silhouetted against the bright midday sky, was a man on foot. The man wore a wide-brimmed hat—and that was about all Eben could discern of his garb. Then the sun that lanced into Eben's eyes also flashed off the barrel of the man's rifle.

  The man spoke, yelling down at him. A chill traveled along Eben's spine, because whatever lingo the man was speaking, it sure wasn't the King's English.

  Two more men appeared on the hill, to either side of the first man, and Eben threw a desperate glance in the direction of the thicket, a hundred feet away. That tangle of brush and vine and thorn he had been cursing a few minutes ago was now as inviting as the Garden of Eden. A hundred feet. So close, and yet so far. He could drop the deer and make a run for it. He was a swift runner. How long would it take to cover that little bit of ground? Four or five seconds?

  The man was yelling again. A furtive glance told Eben that the trio were proceeding down the hill toward him, spread well apart, their rifles leveled. Eben's feverish brain kept racing. What kind of marksmen were they? Had the man meant to fire a shot across his bow? Or had he aimed at Eben and missed? On the verge of bolting for the thicket, Eben felt his deeply ingrained caution rear up and grab him by the throat, throttling the life out of his reckless inclinations. His feet suddenly became rooted to the ground, and he dared not even drop the deer for fear that any movement on his part might prompt one of the men to shoot.

  He studied them as they drew near, and he didn't like what he saw. Mexicans, obviously. A scrofulous lot, dirty and bearded. They were giving him the once-over, too, looking at him as though they had never in their lives seen anything like him. The one in the middle—the man who had fired the shot—made a sharp sideways motion with his rifle, an old flintlock musket. Eben understood perfectly well what that meant, and he let his Kentucky rifle slip from his g
rasp.

  One of the other Mexicans pounced forward to snatch up the rifle. As he admired the weapon, one of his companions made an abrupt attempt to wrestle it away from him. Eben had a brief hope that while the Mexicans quarreled and scuffled over the rifle's possession he might be able to make a break for the thicket. But the third Mexican, the one who had fired at him, kept his eyes and his rifle fixed on him.

  "Look," said Eben, hands raised, "you can keep the rifle. And the deer, too. Just let me go."

  He realized as soon as he spoke how silly the offer really was. Of course they had every intention of keeping both the rifle and the deer he had slain—and they didn't need to make a deal with him to do it.

  The Mexican snapped something at him, and Eben had a hunch he was being told to shut up. Then the man shouted crossly at his two companions. By the tone of voice Eben could tell it was a command—or maybe a command coupled with a threat. Whatever it was, it worked. The two men stopped scuffling over the rifle. The man who had tried to confiscate the rifle from the one who had picked it up had failed in his endeavor; now he spun around and put the tip of his knife to Eben's throat. He did not appear to be in a very good frame of mind. Somehow Eben managed to stand his ground—surprising himself as well as his captors with his composure.

  "Muy valiente," sneered the man with the knife, his face close to Eben's. Eben winced at his fetid breath.

  "El cuchillo," barked the leader. "El pistola."

  The man with the knife plucked Eben's knife and pistol from his belt, one at a time, keeping his blade pressed against Eben's throat and depositing Eben's weapons in his own belt. Then he asked the leader a question. Eben had a good idea what he was asking.