As Chagres left the second-floor balcony, Remo gestured for Eben to precede him. Eben approached the door, his heart heavy, for it seemed to him that he was entering a den of lions. And he was no Daniel.
Creaking on its iron hinges, the heavy door swung ponderously open as he drew near. A fat woman wearing a dough-encrusted apron around her prodigious waist smiled pleasantly at him. Remo followed him in. Eben found himself standing in a wide, tile-floored hall. Straight ahead was another door, open to the courtyard around which the house had been built. To left and right were double doors of dark, heavy oak, leading to other rooms. Remo showed him through the doors to the left. The room beyond was very long, furnished with age-blackened pieces of furniture. Dusty channels of sunlight angled through the narrow windows lining one wall. Moody portraits in ornate, gilded frames stared down at them. Eben's attention was drawn to one of a man clad in the armor of a conquistador. Seeing the armor reminded Eben of the eccentric Britisher, Sir William Drummond Stuart, whom he had met at the Green River rendezvous. But Stuart and the rendezvous and everything else comfortingly familiar to Eben Nall were a world away from here, and for the first time Eben truly regretted having accompanied Hugh Falconer on this foolish venture.
The door at the other end of the room opened. Eben braced himself, expecting to be confronted at close quarters by the intimidating Don Carlos Chagres.
Instead, a young woman entered the room.
One look at her took Eben Nall's breath away.
Chapter 20
Eben knew it wasn't polite to stare. But he just couldn't help himself.
The young woman was beautiful—the most beautiful woman in the world. Eben was as certain of this as he was that the sun rose in the east and set in the west, even though he was no authority on women, not by a long shot, having seen relatively few of the softer sex, especially of the young and attractive variety, during his short lifetime. The Kaskaskia region of Ohio had still been wilderness when Eben was born, with more men than women in the sparse population, and since coming to the mountains the only women he had seen were Indian, with the exception of Reverend Gray's lady missionaries. Now, gazing at this woman, he realized just how plain those lady missionaries had been.
The vision standing before him was petite—only a few inches over five feet in height and weighing maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Eben could have enveloped her narrow waist with his two big hands. But she was shapely, and the dress of pale yellow organdy she wore accentuated every curvy attribute. Her hands and feet were tiny, her skin as white and smooth as polished alabaster. Her hair was long and black and shiny, her eyes limpid hazel pools, and her lips were red and moist like rose blossoms after a spring rain.
As she approached Eben from across the room, she seemed to be examining him with an intense curiosity, taking his measure, and he assumed it was because she had never seen the likes of him before. Eben became suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the sorry appearance he presented. His buckskins were black with grime under the armpits, between the shoulder blades, and in the crotch. And, as she drew near, and the faint, pleasing scent of flowers reached him, he dismally assumed that he stunk to high heaven. He had last bathed in the Humboldt River. That had been a month ago.
"Buenos tardes, Señor," she said, smiling warmly, her eyes roaming over his face, and Eben raised a self-conscious hand to feel the beard stubble on his cheeks. "Or, I should say, Good afternoon."
Eben swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the large lump in his throat. "Ma'am," he mumbled in reply.
Again he wished he possessed another of his brother's gifts—a fleeting but nonetheless fervent wish. Silas was never at a loss for words, especially when it came to charming the ladies.
"Welcome to Hacienda Gavilan. I hope your stay with us will be a pleasant one."
Her voice was lilting, soft, musical. Her accent, in his opinion, was quite fetching.
"So do I, ma'am."
"Please, call me Sombra."
"Sombra. That's a—a very pretty name."
Her smile deepened. She was delighted with the clumsy compliment. Eben felt his cheeks get hot, and he was mortified. He was blushing! Good thing he was unshaven. He wondered if he had been too forward, and he glanced at Remo, who stood beside him.
Remo was trying to maintain that stoic mask of his. But Eben was surprised to see the careful facade begin to crack. The vaquero was watching him with jealousy a lurid glimmer in his dark eyes.
Eben turned back to Sombra. "Are you the wife of Don Carlos, by chance?"
Sombra's smile began to fall apart. She struggled to keep it in place, but Eben caught a glimpse of a strange expression as it flicked across her face. Was that fear he saw? Fear, or loathing. Whatever it was, clearly he had touched a nerve. He began to stumble through an apology, but she stopped him with a hand upraised.
"I am his daughter," she said stiffly.
Eben glanced again at Remo. So this man was in love with the boss's daughter! Eben wondered if Don Carlos was aware of Remo's feelings for Sombra. If he didn't know, what would his reaction be if he found out?
His powerful dislike for Remo emboldened Eben. "Don Carlos is lucky," he told Sombra, "to have such a lovely daughter." And he bowed slightly from the waist. He felt absurd doing it, but he was compelled to throw caution to the wind just for the satisfaction of provoking Remo. It was a foolish thing to do, but Sombra's presence encouraged an odd recklessness lurking in his heart.
"Lucky," said Sombra, uncertain.
"Fortunate."
"Yes. Fortunate." Her tone of voice was unmistakably sarcastic, leaving Eben befuddled. There was more here—much more, lying beneath the surface—than met the eye. But before Eben could give the matter further deliberation, Don Carlos Chagres entered the room.
"Ah," said the patrón, "I see you have met my daughter." He put an arm around her tiny waist and pulled her close to his side. Eben thought her smile was more than a little strained.
"I've had the honor, sir."
Chagres cocked an eyebrow. "You are well mannered for an American. But then, perhaps I am not being fair. You see, our only contact with your people are our business transactions with your Yankee sea captains and their crews. As a rule, I have found these men to be somewhat—how do you say it?—rough around the edges."
"You speak English very well, sir. So does your daughter."
"I have taught her the best I can. She is my only child. My sole heir. This will all belong to her when I am gone. She must know your language to conduct the affairs of this hacienda. Most of our commerce is with British and American traders."
"But this place must be a long way from the sea," said Eben.
"True. But we are not all that far from the San Joaquin, which is navigable a fair distance from the coast." Releasing Sombra, Chagres stepped back and gestured at the furnishings. "I beg your forgiveness. Please, sit down. You look very tired. You have had a difficult day, haven't you? Would you care for a drink? Some wine, perhaps? Madeira?"
Eben didn't know what Madeira was, but he thought it would be rude to decline. "Anything will be fine."
"Sombra, pour our American guest a glass."
She moved obediently to a sideboard and poured the wine from a crystal decanter into a glass, which she then handed to Eben, who now sat in a chair. Eben realized that two years had passed since he had enjoyed the comforts of resting his bones on honest-to-God furniture. And just as long since he had drunk from a glass. The Madeira was quite different from the raw whiskey available in the mountains.
"Tell me, Señor Nall," said Chagres, standing before him. "Where are you bound?"
Eben did not want to fail to give an answer for the second time. "Nowhere in particular. I just wanted to see what California looked like."
"You did not come by sea. You look like no sailor I have ever known. Do you mean to tell me you came across the Sierras?"
"That's right." Eben didn't think there was much point in denying it. Chagres would scarc
ely believe he had dropped out of the sky.
"Alone?"
There was no help for it now. Eben could not answer. Chagres had backed him into that same corner. Then he realized that by not speaking he was, in fact, answering the question.
"So, have you been sent to spy on us, Señor Nall?" Chagres said it with a smile, his tone light, almost joking. But Eben knew it was no joke.
"No, sir. Honest, I just wanted to see California."
Chagres let him off the hook. "And what do you think of it?"
Eben glanced at Sombra, who was sitting primly on a horsehair sofa behind Chagres. Finishing off the Madeira, he rose from the chair.
"Am I to consider myself a prisoner here, sir?"
"A prisoner? But of course not. You are our guest."
"Well, I've never been one for wearing out my welcome. If you don't mind, I'll just be on my way."
It grows late, young man. Please, feel free to stay the night with us. In the morning you may go or stay, as you wish. You have my solemn word—I will not ask any more questions of you. At least none that make you uncomfortable, or that you feel you cannot answer. It is only that we do not see many Americans in these parts. Naturally, we are curious."
Eben decided his wisest course of action would be immediate departure. But he made the mistake of looking once more at Sombra—and he changed his mind on the spot.
Even though it meant lingering in the lion's den.
Never in his life had Eben Nall sat down to such a meal as the supper laid on that night at Hacienda Gavilan. Thick beefsteaks, potatoes, roasted ears of corn, bread, marmalade, strawberries swimming in cream for dessert, hot coffee and brandy for after dinner. Just laying eyes on such a feast reminded Eben how famished he was, and had been for weeks, and he had to make a special effort to remember his table manners. The last thing he wanted to do was behave like a barbarian in front of Sombra.
There were just the three of them—him, Don Carlos, and the girl—and they sat together at one end of a long polished table in the dining room. Chagres sat at the head of the table, with his daughter on one side and Eben on the other. The portly woman who had met Eben at the door that afternoon served them.
"I hope you find your room agreeable," said Chagres, as they began to dine.
"Yes, sir."
The serving woman had shown him upstairs to a guest room two hours earlier. A big four-poster bed had beckoned to the bone-weary Eben, but he had pulled a chair up to the window and gazed out across the compound at the golden plain and beyond, to the snowcapped mountains, a good long day's ride east. Many unanswered—and perhaps unanswerable—questions assailed him. Would he truly be free to leave in the morning? Where were Rube and Hugh Falconer and the rest of the brigade? Did they have any idea what had befallen him? Bearclaw Johnson had disappeared in the mountains and the brigade had moved on without any attempt to locate the missing man. What if the same happened here? Eben felt very much alone.
Later, the serving woman brought him some clean clothes—dark trousers, a white linen shirt, a pair of black half boots that fit just right. Eben didn't want to change, but he figured he would be a poor guest if he sat down to supper in his grimy buckskins. The clothes fit him well, but they felt awfully strange on his skin. Eben had not worn such attire since his last day behind the counter at his father's store, almost two years ago.
"You have quite a place here, sir," added Eben. "I've never seen such a fine home."
Chagres glanced about the room, satisfaction stamped deeply on his face. "I am fond of it. It was built one hundred and seventy years ago, by the Jesuits. A mission, you see."
"A hundred and seventy years!"
"Yes. Back when the French and the English were fighting each other for possession of the other side of this continent. Your United States would not exist for another hundred years. Forty years ago the priests were murdered by Indians. For some time the mission stood abandoned. Then it was granted to me, this place and all the land you can see from the top of the bell tower."
"That's a lot of land for one man to own."
"I do not own just the land, my young friend, but everything and everyone on it. You might liken it to feudal days in Europe. I am the lord and master of all that I survey. Every head of stock, every ear of corn, every drop of water in the creeks, every blade of grass on the plains—it all belongs to me."
"The people, too?"
"But of course. They are obliged to do my will. In return, I gladly accept the responsibility of seeing to their every need. I feed them in times of famine. I clothe them, I arbitrate their disputes. I care for them when they are sick. My word is law among them."
"Sounds kind of like the plantations down South I heard about when I was a boy," said Eben. "That's a pretty big responsibility."
"And one I take very seriously. This is the reason why those ladrons—those thieves—who accosted you had to die."
"I don't think I follow . . ."
"They were stealing my cattle and horses. And when they steal from me they steal from everyone else who lives here."
Eben took a moment to digest this novel concept of one man lord and master, lawgiver and judge, over many. In the mountains there was no law, or so they said back east. In Eben's opinion that wasn't exactly true; there was the law of nature—the strong prevail over the weak—and every mountain man was essentially a law unto himself. He answered to no one but himself, his own conscience. But this—this was quite different from anything Eben had experienced. Don Carlos Chagres ruled all. This was his kingdom. He possessed everything that lived on it, down to that old woman smoking cornhusk cigarettes in front of her choza, and the old white bulldog who was her companion. That meant Eben too was subject to the whims of Don Carlos. His life rested in the hands of the haciendero.
After the meal, the serving woman brought a bottle of brandy and a humidor of hammered silver that contained cigars. Eben declined the latter while accepting a glass of the former. Chagres indulged in both. He took great care in lighting the cigar so that it burned evenly. Sombra excused herself, giving Eben one final, speculative glance as she left the dining room. Eben's thoughts dwelled on her long after she was gone. Her fragrance lingered.
"My daughter is a gentle soul," said Chagres. "She is not much older than the boy Remo killed. They used to play together."
Eben was stunned. "You knew Arturo?"
"Oh, yes. I knew them all. They used to live here. The men worked for me. I provided for them, as I do for all the others. But they were not content with what I gave them and began to take what did not belong to them. For many months they have been killing my cattle and selling their hides. The horses they rode carry my brand. My daughter would say that a few horses and some cattle are of no consequence when measured against the lives of men. But she is wrong. Were I to let them continue, others would perceive my weakness, and soon we would have more predators, and all would be lost. With blood and sweat I have built an empire for my daughter. I fear she will lose it all when I am gone unless she hardens her heart."
"If you don't mind my asking, where is her mother?"
"Her mother died, after a long illness, several years ago. God rest her gentle soul. I have tried to raise Sombra the best I can alone. It is not easy. Consuela here"—he gestured at the serving woman—"has been a surrogate mother to Sombra."
True to his word, Chagres asked no questions of Eben. When the patrón was finished with his postprandial brandy and cigar, he announced his intention to retire for the evening. Eben returned to his room. Somewhere beyond the walls of the house he heard men singing a ballad to the accompaniment of guitars. In the distance an infant cried, and a dog barked. The hacienda, this remote outpost of civilization, was a peaceful setting, mused Eben, and he had been treated very well. Still, he was ill at ease and made certain his rifle was primed and loaded before turning in.
Stripping down to the buff, Eben slipped his lanky frame under the covers. The crisp, clean linen sheets and goosedown ma
ttress were pure heaven. It had been an eventful day; exhausted, Eben drifted off to sleep.
The creak of a floorboard jerked him awake. The door to the room opened onto an inner balcony overlooking the courtyard. The door was ajar, and a shadow moved between it and the bed.
Eben's first, panicked thought was that Remo had come to kill him. Remo—the killer with the lifeless eyes—had been haunting his dreams. The image of the boy, Arturo, on his knees, Remo's pistol to his head, had plagued Eben even in his sleep. And now Remo had come for him, jealous of the way Sombra had looked at him . . .
Eben lunged for the Kentucky rifle leaning against the wall by the bed.
As Sombra hurried forward, she passed through a stream of moonlight at the window, and he saw her clearly, clad in a long white nightgown, her raven hair cascading over her shoulders.
"No! Please!" she whispered. "It is only I."
Sitting up in bed, Eben remembered his nakedness and frantically clutched the covers to his chest.
"Good Lord," he breathed, "you've got to get out of here." He could just imagine what Chagres would do if he found his daughter here.
"You must help me." Standing by the bed, framed against the moonlight, Sombra's body, every firm, alluring curve, was clear to him through the thin fabric of the gown.
"Help you?" he echoed, dumbfounded.
"Take me away from here when you go. Please! I have no one else to turn to. My father—he is a wicked man. I cannot remain here any longer. Please, take me with you." She leaned closer and her hands touched his bare shoulders, and that heady fragrance swept over him as her warm breath caressed his face. "I would do anything . . ."
Chapter 21
Eben Nall took Sombra firmly by the shoulders and pushed her away from the bed.
"You have got to get out of here, miss," he whispered. "If your father . . ."
Realizing that the counterpane had fallen down into his lap, Eben snatched it back up to shoulder level. Sombra covered her face with her hands and quietly sobbed.
Falconer's Law Page 13