"That is not true."
"You understand, there's a real good chance I won't come back. Likely I'll get my fool head shot off. But . . . well, I've got to try, Sombra. I've got to try to save him. He would do the same for me. I know he would."
The thought of his getting killed plainly upset Sombra, but she bravely held herself together. "Then you must do what you have to. I will wait here, and pray to God to keep you safe."
Eben nodded. "I'll leave at sundown." The decision was made, but he felt strangely disconsolate. Their brief idyll here, in the cabin by the sea, was over, and he realized now it had been only an illusion.
He proceeded to clean and load his weapons. Sombra built a small fire in the fireplace, then sat on the floor, hugging her knees, rocking slightly, and watching the flames crackle and dance. There was something forlorn about the way she sat there. Eben felt guilty for leaving her—probably for good. But what could he do? The fact that he had to go, and she expected him to, didn't make the leaving any easier. He wanted to go to her, put his arm around her, hold her tightly. But he didn't. Knowing that if he did it would just make their parting an even more difficult proposition.
Night came, all too soon. It was time to go. His weapons were cleaned, loaded, and primed. The Appaloosa mare was saddled and waiting outside. Eben had put on his buckskins. He had the priest's robe with him, intending to put it on over the buckskins as he neared Monterey. He had no definite plan for getting Falconer out of jail—he didn't even know where the jail was—but he figured the cassock would increase his chances, a little. A man in buckskins was gone beaver for sure in Monterey tonight. The soldiers—and probably the people too—would kill him first and ask questions later.
Sombra had scarcely stirred for hours. Still she sat before the slowly expiring fire.
"Guess I'd better be going," he said lamely.
"My prayers go with you."
That was it? Eben's feelings were bruised. He shrugged and turned to the door, knowing he shouldn't blame her for feeling betrayed and abandoned and without hope. He had come along and she had believed she was getting away from her father, but it had all been illusion, that sense of newfound freedom from despair, and he was going to leave her now to her own devices, getting himself killed, and eventually she would be at her father's mercy again. It was inevitable.
As he reached for the door latch, she got up and flew to him, throwing her arms around him, resting her head against his chest, and heard his racing heart. Eben cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her head so he could see her face, streaked with quiet tears.
"I will come back," he said. "I promise I will."
She nodded and tried to smile, but they both knew that was one promise it might not be within his power to keep.
He pushed her gently away and opened the door.
Sombra cried out in terror.
Gaviota stood there in the windswept darkness.
Chapter 32
Eben pushed Sombra away with the sweep of an arm. Stepping back himself, he brought the Kentucky rifle up. But Gaviota was quick. He grabbed the barrel of the rifle and twisted the weapon out of Eben's grasp. In the scuffle Eben lost his balance and fell backward. Gaviota glanced at the rifle, now in his grasp. Eben expected him to use it. But the Californio tossed the weapon aside with obvious disdain.
"Don't hurt him, Gaviota," said Sombra. "I will go back with you. Just don't hurt him."
His features inscrutable, Gaviota looked at her.
Eben assumed that Padre Pico had unwittingly led Gaviota to the cabin. That meant Gaviota had recognized the priest three nights ago, and Don Carlos had sent him to Carmel Mission, to watch Pico and wait, in the hope that sooner or later the priest would lead him to where Sombra was hiding.
"You're not going anywhere with him," Eben told her grimly.
Leaping to his feet, he yanked the flintlock pistol from his belt.
Gaviota moved quick as thought, striking Eben's arm such a numbing blow that the pistol slipped from his useless fingers. Grabbing Eben by the front of his hunting shirt, Gaviota hurled the young mountain man over the split-log table effortlessly. Eben hit the hard-packed earth of the cabin floor so hard it knocked the wind out of him. The overturned table falling on top of him didn't help matters either. Despair was a quick black cancer in Eben's soul. Gaviota was an incredibly strong man, a natural killer, and Eben realized he had no chance against him.
But he had to try.
He kicked the table away and again got to his feet, his breathing ragged and labored, his arm still numb and pressed against his side, the copper taste of blood in his mouth. His rifle was gone, and the pistol too—Gaviota would not let him get near them. All he had left was his hunting knife. He drew it from its sheath.
Gaviota smiled.
The Californio reached behind him, and when his hand reappeared it held a knife—a short, straight blade, a ribbed handle, a steel ball at the end to balance the knife for throwing. By drawing his own knife Eben had played into Gaviota's hands.
"Sombra," said Eben. "Run. Now."
"No."
She flew to him, trying to shield him with her body, assuming Gaviota would want no harm to come to her. Don Carlos would want his daughter back safe and sound. Gaviota's contented smile faded as he saw what Sombra was trying to do. But Eben could not bring himself to hide behind a woman—even if it was the only way to survive.
He pried her loose and pushed her away.
"Get back, Sombra. I'll handle this."
Gaviota took one step toward Eben.
Then he whirled to face the open door as Sixkiller exploded into the cabin with a war whoop that sent chills shooting down Eben Nall's spine.
A knife flashed in the warrior's hand. He plowed into Gaviota and bore him to the ground. Locked in a death struggle, the two men rolled across the floor, fetching up against the overturned table. As Sixkiller plunged his blade into Gaviota's neck, the Californio's knife slid between the warrior's ribs and pierced his heart. Sixkiller died instantly. Pinned to the floor by the Indian's weight, Gaviota convulsed, groping at the knife in his throat, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. Then he, too, was dead.
For a long time Eben stood there, staring at the two corpses in death's embrace at his feet, illuminated by the dancing yellow light of the coal oil lamp whose flame guttered in the sea wind whispering plaintively through the doorway. Finally he bestirred himself, picking Sixkiller up and carrying him across the cabin to lay him out on the strawtick mattress covering the rope slat bed.
"Who is he?" asked Sombra.
"I saved his life once," replied Eben flatly. "He figured he owed me the same favor."
"Your friend."
"No. My enemy." Looking up at her, Eben could see she did not understand.
"But how did they find us?"
"Gaviota followed Padre Pico, I guess. Sixkiller must have followed Gaviota." With one last look at the warrior, he went to Sombra. "Come on. I'm taking you to the mission. Padre Pico will look out for you until I return from Monterey."
Eben stopped just shy of town in a thick stand of trees. Dismounting, he tethered the mare, then donned the priest's cassock over his buckskins. Almost as an afterthought he shed his moccasins and rolled up his leggings so that they did not extend below the hem of the robe. As for his rifle, he experimented with carrying it concealed beneath the cassock, but it was no use. He would leave it behind, then, and rely on the pistol and knife in his belt.
Going barefoot wasn't easy—it seemed that he managed somehow to step on every sharply pointed stone in the road. By the time he reached the outskirts of town his feet hurt like hell. But he would just have to endure. This disguise was his best hope of getting anywhere near the place they were holding Hugh Falconer.
Padre Pico had told him that most prisoners were kept in the old presidio, across the plaza from the governor-general's house. So Eben headed straight for the center of town. It was late, and he was counting on the majority of Monterey
's inhabitants being asleep in their beds. The residential areas through which he passed were quiet enough, but as he neared the plaza he began to see people in the streets. He kept his cowl-covered head down. When a pair of soldiers emerged suddenly from an alley and almost collided with him he had a bad moment. They were off duty; they reeked of strong spirits. One of them spoke to Eben in Spanish. Eben made the sign of the cross and hurried on by. The soldiers laughed and went the other way, none too steady on their feet. Thank God they were drunk, thought Eben.
Reaching the plaza, he slipped back into the shadows of a doorway and bleakly surveyed the stern facade of the presidio across the way. The building, two stories high, had been built around a courtyard. Once a fortress, it had no exterior windows that Eben could see from his vantage point; all the windows must open on the courtyard. The only way in seemed to be an archway where a pair of sentries stood their posts at an iron gate.
Eben tried to fend off mounting despair. How could he get inside? He couldn't speak a word of Spanish. Even if he could, what would he say to persuade those guards to let him pass at this hour? It all seemed quite hopeless.
A woman walked by and saw him. Her camisa was pulled down off both shoulders and revealed a lot of cleavage. Eben belatedly recognized her. It was Maria, the woman from the cantina where he and Hugh Falconer had met with Captain Shagrue of the brig Halcyon. Her lips were as red as the petals of the blossom in her raven hair. His presence startled her, and she spoke, crossly, in rapid-fire Spanish. Eben ducked his head quickly, hoping she would not remember him from the cantina. He made the sign of the cross again as he brushed by her and walked quickly away. Throwing a furtive look over his shoulder, Eben saw her standing there, staring after him. He cursed under his breath. Had she recognized him? Even if she hadn't, there was something about him that made her suspicious. He set a course for the church where Sombra had attended mass last Sunday. When he glanced behind him again, the prostitute had vanished.
He turned down a street, negotiated the alley behind the church, and, crossing another street, reached the back corner of the presidio. The sound of hooves on cobblestone alerted him, and he ducked into the shadows of another alley. A carreta, pulled by a pair of mules, its great wooden wheels creaking loudly in the stillness of the night, appeared at the end of the street. A Californio was driving, and he stopped the cart a hundred feet from where Eben was hiding. Two men got out of the back of the cart. They were dressed like poor laborers.
But they were carrying rifles.
Eben took a closer look—and recognized them.
Jenkins and Taggart!
They approached the presidio on foot, the young Californio in tow. As they neared the alley Eben stepped out of the shadows.
"Jesus!" gasped Taggart, swinging his rifle around to aim it at Eben.
Grinning, Eben swept back the cowl that hid his features. "Not even close," he said.
"Eben!" exclaimed Gus Jenkins. He grabbed Eben by the arm and dragged him into the alley. Taggart and the Californio followed. "What the blue blazes are you doing here?"
"If I had to guess, I'd say I'm here for the same reason you are, Gus."
"Where did you get that robe?"
"It's a long story."
"Well, then, you can tell me all about it later—if we manage to live through the night." Jenkins scanned the outer wall of the presidio looming over them and shook his head dolefully. "This looks like it's gonna be a tough nut to crack."
"Only one way in, I think," said Eben. "And there are two guards . . ."
"How were you planning to get in?"
"To be honest, I really didn't have what you could call a plan. How about you?"
"Same here." Jenkins was eyeing the priest's robe. "But I just got an idea. A pair of guards, you say?"
Eben nodded.
"Mind if I borrow that robe?"
Chapter 33
Eben Nall didn't think the idea Jenkins had come up with would work, but he kept his mouth shut as he shed the cassock and gave it to Jenkins to put on. Truth was, he didn't have a better idea.
"You watch this boy," Taggart told him, gesturing at the young Californio. "He's a smart one. Keeps his eyes open and doesn't say much. Just waiting for us to get a little careless. If he gets away he'll wake up the whole town in nothing flat, and then we're gone beaver for sure."
Drawing his pistol, Eben told Taggart not to worry.
That was good enough for Taggart. Like the other men in the brigade, he had learned to trust Eben Nall. At first, back at the Green River rendezvous, he had harbored some serious reservations about this untested young man who was only one year removed from an Ohio dry goods counter. Eben had obviously benefited some from Rube Holly's tutelage, but that wasn't enough to suit Taggart and the other veterans of high country living. Now, though, all doubts had been erased. Eben Nall was tried and true. He had proven himself against the Digger Indians, and again in the Sierras.
Eben was smart enough to understand what Taggart's trust signified, and he was proud to be entrusted with such an important task as watching the young man, but he didn't cotton to being left behind while his colleagues tried to infiltrate the presidio. If they got into trouble there wasn't going to be a hell of a lot he could to help them out. But he had to admit it made sense—both Jenkins and Taggart could speak the language.
Jenkins and Taggart left the alley and started toward the plaza. The latter stopped just shy of turning the corner, while the former, clad in the priest's robe, made the turn without hesitation and walked right up to the gate.
"Padre," said one of the sentries, as Jenkins drew near, "don't you know it is not safe to be on the streets so late at night?"
"No one is safe," said the second guard, "as long as those American barbarians are roaming free."
With a quick look Jenkins saw two things: the padlock on a heavy chain holding the two sections of the gate together, and the big skeleton key dangling from a long rawhide thong secured to the belt of one of the soldiers.
"God's work is never done," he said—and prayed his Spanish was good enough to pass muster and fool these men.
"What brings you here, Padre?" asked the first sentry.
"I have come to see one of the prisoners."
"Come back in the morning. No one can enter at this hour."
Jenkins had concealed his pistol in one of the sleeves of the cassock. Now, very close to the sentry, he drew the weapon from its place of concealment and laid the barrel across the man's skull. The soldier crumpled, out cold. Before the second guard could bring his rifle to bear or shout an alarm, Jenkins had the pistol planted in his belly.
"Are you ready to meet your Maker, my son?"
The soldier froze and allowed Jenkins to relieve him of his rifle.
Without taking his eye off the soldier, Jenkins pursed his lips and whistled. The sound, thought the guard, was uncannily like the soft cry of a nightbird.
At the signal, Taggart loped around the corner of the building. He slung the unconscious sentry over a shoulder and followed Jenkins, who marched the second guard around the corner and down the alley where Eben was watching over the young Californio.
Tossing the rifle to Eben, Jenkins ordered the soldier to strip, while Taggart removed the unconscious man's uniform. In minutes both Jenkins and Taggart were wearing the uniforms. Not perfect fits, but they would have to do.
"Watch 'em close, Eben," said Jenkins. "We'll be back before you know it."
"What if you get caught?"
"If we get caught you'll hear one big ruckus," said Taggart. "Then you'd better run like the hounds of hell are nipping at your heels."
"Good luck."
Jenkins and Taggart hurried back to the gate. Apparently no one had noticed the momentary absence of the sentries. The skeleton key worked in the gate's padlock.
"Stay here," said Jenkins.
Taggart nodded. If the gate appeared too long unguarded someone was bound to pass by and notice. He watched Jenkins
proceed through the archway into the deeper shadows of the courtyard, then turned to survey the plaza carefully. He saw no one. So far, so good.
There did not appear to be anyone in the courtyard, but Jenkins kept close to the walls. This brought him to a window through which streamed a broad ribbon of lamplight. He took a quick peek. The room was obviously part of a barracks, with narrow bunks lining the walls. Four soldiers were playing cards at a table in the middle of the room. Others slept in their bunks. Jenkins got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the window.
Going on, he came to an open door. A single soldier sat at a table in a small stone room. Beyond him was a wall of heavy strap iron, with an inset door. It looked like a jail to Jenkins. He slipped inside and eased around behind the unawares soldier, who was engrossed in a leather-bound book. Jenkins did not fail to notice the pistol in the man's belt, and, as he edged closer, silent as a ghost, the ring of keys riding on the man's hip.
Catfooting up behind the soldier, Jenkins pressed the barrel of the rifle against the base of his skull.
"Move and you die," he said quietly.
The soldier's body went rigid—but he didn't move.
Jenkins appropriated his pistol.
"I've come for the American. Is he here?"
The soldier nodded.
Jenkins thought, This is too easy. Something is going to happen, and I'm not going to like it . . .
He stepped back as the soldier stood up, his hands above his hand, and went around the table to the strap-iron door. This he unlocked with one of the keys on the ring. Jenkins kept the rifle barrel nestled against the soldier's spine as they walked down a dark, narrow corridor of stone. They came to a flight of sagging stone steps leading down. A lantern burned low on an iron spike driven into the wall at the top of the steps.
"Take the lantern and keep moving," said Jenkins.
The soldier took the lantern. He gave Jenkins a look that warned the mountain man that he was over his initial fright and was beginning to scheme. Jenkins realized that one shot would bring the whole garrison down on him. The soldier knew this, too. But was he willing to give his life to raise the alarm?
Falconer's Law Page 21