The Fallon Legacy, page 23
“You will be turned over to the proper authorities,” Bell said primly.
“Bell,” Groce growled, “if you open your mouth again, I’ll call you out. James didn’t kill anybody. I know that as well as if I were with him every minute.”
Bell drew himself up. “If you think I’m afraid—”
“Damn it!” Austin cried. He sounded on the point of tears. “Damn it, James, I know you didn’t kill this Ramirez. But it doesn’t matter. Don’t you understand that? If it goes to a trial, you’ll be convicted, and the entire colony may come tumbling right after you.”
“I won’t go to prison for something I didn’t do, Stephen.”
“I know,” Austin said wearily. “But you can’t stay here. You understand that, don’t you? I can’t risk the colony for one man. Not even a friend.”
James nodded slowly. The nightmare had him by the coattail again. “I’ll be gone by morning.”
“Thank you. I’d have hated to order you out. But I’d have done it, James. For the colony. You understand I can’t do anything if Cordelia Applegate takes this to a higher authority. Your best bet is to be back in the United States before she realizes I haven’t arrested you.”
“I won’t be chased out,” James said grimly. “Not by her.”
“What will you do?” Groce wanted to know. “Where will you go?”
James looked at Bell silently. The man would tell everything he knew as soon as he got the chance. The others understood immediately. Bell’s face swelled and grew red.
“Whatever you do,” Austin said, “my prayers go with you. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
“I know, Stephen. Good-bye, and good luck. Good-bye, Jared.”
As he turned for the door, Bell started to follow, but Groce pushed the smaller man down into a chair. “I think we’ll play some chess, Bell. And I won’t take no for an answer.”
James rode back to the cabin slowly, with no idea of where to go or what to do. It seemed that any plan he made was fated to be wrecked from the start. When he got down off his horse, José and Henry came out to meet him. Leonie watched warily from the door, her dress opened enough for young Denmark to nurse.
“You are troubled, señor?” José said.
Tersely he explained what had happened. The two men seemed stunned when he finished. Finally, Leonie spoke.
“Did you kill that man?”
“Hush up, girl,” Cameron said. “I was there. Remember?” She subsided sulkily.
“What do we do now, señor?” Escobar smiled at James’s look. “I will ride with you a time longer.”
“Me, too,” Cameron said. “I ain’t staying no place that don’t want you.”
James smiled in spite of himself. Suddenly things didn’t seem so bleak. “I’m not going to the States. That’s what I’ll let folks think, though, in case Cordelia tries to find me.”
“Then where, señor?”
“West. Maybe all the way to San Antonio. Cordelia will never think to look there.”
Cameron shook his head. “The authorities in Bexar won’t be too happy to see us, us not having any kind of papers.”
“We’ll take care of that when we come to it,” James said. “Let’s start packing. I don’t want to spend an hour more here than I have to.”
28
San Antonio de Bexar lay in a bend of the San Antonio River, a small adobe town, but a metropolis compared to San Felipe. It had two plazas, thronging with sauntering vaqueros, peóns in varicolored serapes, and women whose skirts were a rainbow. Between the low, flat-roofed houses facing the plazas towered the steeple of San Fernando Church, the tallest structure in the town. Indeed, in the flat country around San Antonio, dense with mesquite thickets to the south and west, it was taller than anything until one reached the rolling hills north of town.
James studied the two men across the table from him in the governor’s long, low palacio. One was Antonio Martinez, governor of Texas, the other Erasmo Sequin, mayor of San Antonio. He had just finished telling them a version of his situation and asking for permission to settle.
Martinez shook his narrow, balding head. “By your own admission, señor, you are in Mexico without proper papers. By rights I should arrest you.”
“Su Excelencia,” James said, “I have no wish to break the laws of Mexico. As I said, I am a horse breeder. There is little market for my horses in the Austin colony. In San Antonio, I might be able to take advantage of the trade routes.”
“As a plan,” Sequin said, “it has merit.” He was a short man, and stout, but with an enormous dignity that made him seem more suited to high office than the governor himself.
“No,” Martinez said, “the law is quite clear. Do not think I do not sympathize. I supported Senor Austin’s petition for a grant. But under the Colonization Law, those who are not citizens of Mexico must be residents in good standing of a recognized colony. For the moment, the only such colony is that of Senor Austin. If you wish to remain in Mexico, I must urge you to return there.”
“But perhaps something temporary could be—”
“I am sorry,” Martinez said. “There is no provision for anything ‘temporary.’ You may remain for a few days of rest—but then you must leave. And now, if you will forgive me, I am expecting guests. Buenas tardes, señor.”
“Buena suerte, Senor Fallon,” Sequin said.
As James left the Governor’s Palace, a coach drew to a halt at the foot of the steps. One of the accompanying vaqueros dismounted to open the coach door, and an elderly, distinguished-appearing man stepped out, his clothing the same as the vaqueros’, but of finer cut. He handed a young woman from the coach. James found himself staring.
She was a dark, slender woman, her ivory lace mantilla surrounding an oval face that seemed filled by liquid brown eyes. The distinguished man—her father rather than her husband, James found himself hoping—took her arm and came up the steps.
James made his best bow. “Buenas tardes, señor, señorita.” He thought the girl flickered an eye in his direction, but the man didn’t pause. They disappeared into the Governor’s Palace.
God, the girl had been beautiful. James approached the vaqueros. “Pardon me, señores. Could you tell me the name of the gentleman who just went inside?”
The men regarded him with blank eyes; then one said arrogantly, “Don Tomas Ibarra y Velasquez.”
“And the señorita?”
The first man who had spoken pushed his horse forward. His was the flat, dark face of the Indio, a jagged scar on his left cheek. A silver-mounted quirt dangled from his wrist. “Who are you to ask these questions?”
“I’m James Christopher Fallon. And your name, señor?”
“I am Diego Almada, yanqui. Jefe de vaqueros to Don Tomás. Don Tomás knows you norteamericanos for the greedy langostas that you are.”
James had no hope of remaining in San Antonio if he got into a fight in front of the Governor’s Palace. Without a word he unhitched his horse and mounted. His ears burned with Almada’s laughter as he rode away.
His way led across the split-log bridge east of town, past the ruins of an old mission to a stand of cottonwoods by an irrigation ditch. The others were gathered around a fire where a coffeepot and a kettle of stew bubbled.
“What word?” Cameron said quietly. José looked up from stirring the stew without speaking.
“Can we stay?” Leonie asked.
She was frightened, and the two men, if not frightened, were at least worried. If San Antonio refused them, there was nothing left but to return to the United States.
“Martinez, the governor, likes to quote law,” he said. “But the mayor, Sequin, seems reasonable. I’ll go back to see him in the morning.”
Their faces fell.
José filled a tin cup with coffee and passed it to him. “Is there truly a chance, señor?”
“There’s always a chance, José.” Suddenly he had to change the subject. There wasn’t any chance at all. He was just going through the motions. “I saw a girl in town.”
“A girl!” Henry hooted. “Another pretty flower, James?”
“Prettiest girl I ever saw in my life.”
“It is a wondrous thing to be young,” José said, failing to conceal a smile.
“A roving eye,” Henry laughed, “and no cares.”
Abruptly it wasn’t funny to James anymore. He had to find a way. He had to.
The next morning James rode into San Antonio with José, to the alcalde’s adobe house, with its red-tiled roof. Over a low wall he could see a courtyard with fig trees and oleanders. He tossed his reins to José and got down to rap at the door.
A plump, dark maid opened the door a crack. “Sí, señor?”
“I wish to see the alcalde.”
“Don Erasmo has gone to Laredo. He left before first light.” The door shut firmly.
“That finishes it,” James told José. “No telling when he’ll be back, and Martinez said I could stay only a few days.”
“You will find a way, señor.”
They were all counting on him, he thought as he mounted. He hoped he was up to it.
“I’ll do my best, José.” Suddenly he pointed to vaqueros forming around a coach in front of the Governor’s Palace. Men were coming down the steps, as well. And a girl. “That’s her, José. Now tell me if she isn’t enough to turn a man’s head. Doña Drusilla Ibarra y Velasquez.”
“Velasquez, señor? I believe I know … yes, I know that man.”
James waited, wondering, while José rode to the steps and doffed his hat to Drusilla’s father. The two men talked; then José waved for James to come forward. The vaqueros parted to let him through, Almada moving aside with obvious reluctance. James removed his hat and said nothing. Drusilla stood demurely behind her father.
“Don Tomás,” Escobar said, “may I present my friend, Señor James Christopher Fallon?”
James bowed in the saddle. “I am honored, Don Tomás.”
Velasquez regarded him thoughtfully. “I do not generally like norte-americanos, Senor Fallon, but the fact that José Escobar names you his friend speaks well for you.”
“He honors me with his friendship.”
“I have known José for twice as many years as you have lived. He has told me you are a breeder of horses, Senor Fallon.”
“I intend to be so, sir. My yeguada, River Wind, is part Arab and part Spanish Barb. By crossing him with mustang mares I hope to produce a mount larger and faster than the mustang, but with the wild horses’ stamina.”
“That could prove interesting, Senor Fallon. Others have crossbred with the mustangs, but never with such good bloodstock. Still, I understand that you have some difficulties.”
“I hope to remedy them, sir.”
“A man who does not quail in the face of adversity. I like that, señor.” He glanced at José, then nodded as if confirming a thought. “I offer you the hospitality of my hacienda until your way is clear. It is a long journey; we leave for the north within the hour.”
James could barely contain his grin. As Don Tomás’s guest he’d hear no official talk of his leaving in a few days, or even weeks. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much. We’ll be ready to ride.”
Velasquez offered his hand to his daughter. “Come, Drusilla.” He helped her into the coach, the vaqueros formed behind it, and the procession rolled away.
“He didn’t introduce me to Drusilla,” he mused.
Escobar looked troubled. “Señor, he respects your perseverance, and he knows me, but still …”
“I’m just another yanqui adventurer?”
“I am sorry.”
James shook his head. He had no time for opium dreams about some girl. “Come on, José. We have packing to do.” He dug in his spurs with unusual vehemence.
Lucille turned from her dressing table mirror as Cordelia entered her room. Irritably she drew her peignoir over her breasts. “What do you want, dear ‘Aunt’? I do not have much time. Gerard will be up here any minute demanding his husbandly rights.”
“Don’t get above yourself.” Cordelia’s voice was soft, but there was a razor edge underneath. “Gerard may think you’re my niece, but to me you’re still just an octoroon servant girl. Your part is done with marrying Fourrier, and you’d better remember it.”
Lucille knotted her fists in the lace of her peignoir. “Why have you come to me? Zut! You have been avoiding me since the wedding.” Wedding, she thought. An itinerant Franciscan and two vaqueros for witnesses. The papers had been signed for her dowry: half of Cordelia’s estate, one-third now, one-third in five years, one-third in ten. Cordelia had signed as reluctantly as if the ink were her blood. Gerard had been so eager he hadn’t complained, though, and she had been amused by the whole thing. Until she found out how much a young bride rejuvenated him.
Cordelia tossed a note on the dressing table. “I thought you might be interested in this. It’s from that clerk in the Governor’s Palace. About time he had something of interest to report for what I pay him.”
Lucille read, frowning.
Señora,
A norteamericano calling himself James Christopher Fallon and claiming to be a breeder of horses has lately come to San Antonio. After but two days in the city, however, he insinuated himself into the company of Don Tomás Ibarra y Velasquez and has gone north with him to his rancho. It is obvious that he is up to some nefarious purpose, of which I will dutifully inform you as soon as I discover it.
It was unsigned.
“Cowardly fool,” Cordelia snorted. “He wouldn’t know a nefarious purpose if one bit him. He doesn’t know if he’s more afraid of being found out by Martinez or losing my money.”
“We have him,” Lucille crooned. “We can tell the authorities right where to find him.”
“Fool! You’re as big a fool as that clerk. Don’t you recognize that name? Tomás Ibarra y Velasquez is a personal friend of Pedro Negrete. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“He is one of the Regency in Mexico City. What does that matter?”
“What good to have him thrown in jail if Velasquez just has him released again? And he will, if he’s taken Fallon under his protection.”
Lucille’s voice rose shakily. “You are not going to let him go? Forget about him? Merde! I will not have it! He must die!” She was so angry she didn’t notice Cordelia’s stare until the other woman spoke.
“Sometimes, Lucille, I think you hate the Fallons as much as I do. I wonder why. Someday I’ll find out what really happened in Charleston. And in New Orleans.”
Lucille turned away. “I told you what happened.” She picked up her brush, then put it down again. Her hand was shaking. She didn’t want Cordelia to see that.
“Perhaps. In any case, I won’t let James Fallon go, nor any Fallon. But I’ll handle him in my own way and in my own time.”
“Of course, Cordelia.”
“And I want to keep Gerard happy. I haven’t been able to get anything out of the old woman about how long we need him. You understand?”
“I understand,” Lucille sighed. She began to run the brush violently through her hair. Cordelia could take her time about Fallon if she wanted. She intended to settle with him. Soon.
29
As James reached the hacienda the orange sun sat low on the horizon, filling the courtyard with long shadows. Through the fall and winter he, Henry, and José had ridden with the Velasquez vaqueros. Now, in April 1824, they were helping with the branding. He turned his horse over to a peón and made his way to the main house. To his surprise, Drusilla opened the door.
She put a hand to her throat and said, “Senor Fallon,” as if she hadn’t expected to see him. For the few seconds before she took her eyes from his face, he felt as if he were drowning in them.
His ears burned. “Manuel said your father wanted to see me, Doña Drusilla.”
“Come in. I will tell him you are here.” She disappeared before he could say another word, leaving him standing there.
And what could he say, he thought. He couldn’t repay Don Tomás’s kindness by paying court to his daughter. Not when his future was as substantial as winter cobwebs.
He felt eyes on him, and looked up. It was Don Tomás’s other daughter, Elena, twelve years old, and with eyes as big as her sister’s. Those brown eyes regarded him soberly.
“Is it really true,” Elena asked, “that you have sisters who are twins? And that one of them has my name?”
“Their names are Eleanor and Elaine. I suppose that’s close enough to Elena. But how did you know about them?”
“Drusilla told me. I should like very much to be twins. I should be able to go twice as many places and see twice as many things.”
He chuckled. “From what I understand, your father thinks you do more than enough by yourself.”
“Fathers,” she said in a long-suffering voice, “are like that.” She brightened. “I have watched you, Senor Fallon, and studied you at length. I think it is time to tell you that I find you quite suitable.”
“I thank you, Doña Elena. I find you quite suitable, too.”
“That is good. When I am old enough, I shall marry you.”
Drusilla returned in time to hear her sister’s last remark. “Elena! A lady does not say such things. Return to your room at once. Play with your dolls.”
“I am not playing with dolls this evening,” Elena replied levelly. “I am doing my embroidery. Which I do better than you, Drusilla.” She drew herself up and made a regal exit, spoiled at the last minute by sticking her tongue out at her sister.
“You must forgive her, Senor Fallon,” Drusilla said. “Except when we are in Mexico City she is too much alone. She needs children her own age. Why, I often catch her playing with the peón children. In the dirt.”
“It hasn’t seemed to hurt her so far.”
“Of course.” Suddenly she seemed to realize she had been looking him in the eye. She dropped her eyes to the floor and smoothed her skirt nervously with her hands. “Mi papá will see you now, Senor Fallon.”
