Fallon (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 10

  “What’s next?” Brennan asked.

  Fallon shrugged. “Wait. Look, John, Al’s a kid. Sure, he’s nineteen, and you and me, we were men making our way long before that, but he’s nineteen like we were fourteen. Maybe he’ll come to his senses.”

  “You know he won’t,” Brennan replied. “Fallon, how many times have you seen an Al Damon strap on a gun like that? First he wants to be a gunfighter; he admires outlaws and gunfighters. He straps on a gun and convinces himself he’s a big man. He practices in secret. If it stopped there, that would be fine; but he’s got to kill somebody.

  “A man who’s a gunfighter, he’s killed men, and unless a fellow has, he can’t have the name. He’s not thinking about the fact that the other man will be shooting, too. In your dreams you never draw too slow, never get killed…not in daydreams, anyway. So sooner or later he’s going to have to use that gun.”

  Fallon drew the cards to him again. Idly, he ran them through his fingers. “John, what would you have me do? Go to his father? I don’t believe Al would give up the gun because his father told him to—in fact, I know he wouldn’t.

  “Maybe I should go to Al? You know what would happen then. He’d try to face me, and I might have to kill him. I don’t want to draw a gun on that boy, John.”

  Brennan was silent. Of course, what Fallon said was true. When they went as far as Al Damon had gone, mighty few of them stopped before they killed or were killed. Perhaps fortunately, most of them were killed.

  Fallon stacked the cards again and got up. “Going up to the claim,” he said, and went out.

  Irritation was riding him. He had remained too long in Red Horse. He had a few dollars now, little enough, it was true, but he would be smart to saddle up and ride out. He could get on the stage route and follow it through to Carson. He was playing the fool, staying here. His every instinct told him the top was about to blow off and he was standing right in the middle of it.

  He walked up to the mine, peeled off his coat and shirt, and puttered around. In the drift he worked for a good two hours, working away with his pick at the face of the drift, working to rid himself of his worry rather than for any hope of finding anything. In fact, he had no such hope.

  He could drive his pick into a crack and wedge off a good-sized chunk. It fell around his feet, and he let it fall. Finally, he put down the pick and went to the mouth of the tunnel.

  Red Horse lay below him, and he looked at it with surprise. There were a dozen people on the street, two wagons, and several saddle horses. Lines of wash hung outside nearly every cabin. Three tents had gone up in a neat row back of the Damon store. Beyond the town he could see rows of bright green where corn was up and starting to leaf out…the weeks had gone by too fast.

  Two small boys came out of the Damon store and started down the street. There ought to be a school. That was one thing the town needed…a school.

  Well, it was none of his affair. He had made his decision as he looked down over the town. Whether or not he sold his claims, he would pull out at the end of another month. He would give it that long.

  Yet even as he decided, he felt an odd sinking in his stomach. He was a fool to wait. Buell might come back. Bellows might come. Anything might happen.

  He picked up his shirt and put it on and stuffed it into his pants. He was buttoning his shirt when Ginia Blane rode up on the shoulder where the claim lay.

  “How do you do, Mr. Acting Mayor?” she said politely.

  He glanced at her sourly. “I have no desire,” he said, “to be acting mayor or any other kind.”

  “As much as I do not like you,” Ginia confessed, “you have done a lot for the town. You deserve to be mayor.”

  “I don’t like you, either,” Fallon replied coolly, “and I deserve nothing of the kind. The only reason I interfered was because the man was so obviously a crook.”

  “John Buell,” she said, looking straight into his eyes, “of Buell’s Bluff.”

  He finished buttoning his shirt, giving all his attention to the buttons. She knew then. Well, that tore it. Now he was getting out of town. When he lifted his eyes to her his face betrayed nothing.

  “I am afraid that I don’t get a chance to do enough for the town to be a good mayor at the stage this town is now passing through. There are too many interruptions for me.”

  “Don’t ignore the subject, Mr. Fallon. I am sure no honest man would be so adept at turning things to his advantage as you seem to be. My father is an impatient man, Mr. Fallon, but not a suspicious one. I am afraid that I am suspicious.

  “You hesitated out there on the trail that day before you named the town, and then you saw our sorrel, and you came up very quickly with a name…Red Horse.

  “Naturally, when we moved into town I was curious, and was surprised there wasn’t the name of the town anywhere. There was only one sign missing—the sign in front of the bank.”

  “You have a devious mind, Miss Blane. When one is so suspicious of others, it makes a man wonder if there isn’t something wrong with the thinking of that person.”

  She was attractive, too damned attractive. Suddenly he wanted to be rid of her. Why didn’t she ride back down to town? Was she spying on him? Yet for what reason? She seemed to know all that was necessary to expose him.

  “You know about Buell’s Bluff?”

  “Yes…I was a little girl at the time, but I had an uncle who was very excited about it until the boom collapsed.” She regarded him with those cool eyes. “It was a fraud.”

  “Is a town ever a fraud?” he said gently. “A town is made up of people, and until there are people there can be no town. John Buell is gone. The people who came with him are gone, and I did not let them come back. So what we have here is a town not only with a new name, but with a new life.” He looked up at her and smiled. “Miss Blane, how can a collection of old, empty buildings be a fraud?”

  “You are very glib.”

  “Your father is here…he is part of the town. Is he a fraud? Is Joshua Teel a fraud? Or your friend Damon?”

  She was not to be put off. “What about you? Are you a fraud?”

  He shrugged, spreading his hands. “Who can say what he is? Are you so sure of yourself? I am not sure at all. I do not know what I am.

  “Look.” He swept a hand toward the town. “There it is. I think the prospect is pleasant. It was an empty shell. Now there are homes here, citizens earning a living. There are fields with crops springing up, there is water to irrigate, soon one of our cows will calve. Our town may die, but now it lives…let us help it.”

  He dropped his hands. “Anyway, what difference can one man make in the destiny of a town? If I were a fraud, need it matter? The town would go on without me.”

  She considered that, and then she shook her head slowly. “No, Mr. Fallon, I do not think it would. As much as I dislike you, and as much as some of them down there dislike you, I do not think the town would live or could live without you.”

  It was a point gained, and he grasped it quickly. “Perhaps, then,” he said quietly, “I am not a fraud.”

  When she was safely down the hill he sat down and swore. That damned girl had a way of talking that angered him. He should keep his mouth shut and let her talk, but she kept prying, and something forced him to come up with the answers.

  That the town would die without him was nonsense. But the thought irritated him, and it brought a sense of guilt that he did not appreciate. After all, what difference did it make? Was he his brother’s keeper?

  But that was not the problem now. If Ginia told what she knew—and there was no reason she shouldn’t—there would be an exodus from the town as sudden and dramatic as that other one, years before. At all costs, he must make a deal.

  CHAPTER 5

  MACON FALLON RETURNED to his quarters above the saloon and put together a small pack. From Damon,
in lieu of cash, he had a few days previously taken some clothing, blankets, and other necessities. Now he packed his clothing, his extra ammunition, the few toilet articles he used, and a couple of books he had found in the hotel.

  Only when that was done did he go to the stable behind the saloon, where he watered the black horse, filled the manger with forage, and checked the horse’s shoes to be sure he was ready for travel.

  “When we go,” he whispered to the black horse, “we will go fast and far…and it can happen at just any time.”

  Uneasily, he paused in the stable door. Why not saddle up and go right now? Why wait for the chance of a big killing that might never materialize? He had escaped from the Utes as much by luck as by ability, and he had outsmarted and outmaneuvered Iron John Buell only with the help of his loyal friends. He might not be so lucky again.

  The Utes were out there, undoubtedly watching the town, and Bellows was out there, too. Within the town there was unrest, and at least some people who disliked him. And there was Al Damon, his gun belted on, itching for a chance to prove he was a tough man.

  Sourly, Fallon looked at the town. What was wrong with him? Why was he wasting time now on building the place? He had all the front he needed. All that remained was a sucker with enough money.

  Yet that might take a long time and he was a fool to wait. He had a feeling his luck was running out, and it was the sort of hunch to which he had always paid attention in the past.

  He went up the stairs to his room and looked around gloomily. It was empty as a barn…no place for a man to live. And nothing for him downstairs but coffee and a talk with John Brennan.

  He glanced at the two books thrust down into his unstrapped pack—purposely he had left it open for the last few items. He had always wanted to read more, but there had never seemed to be time. Yet he knew that was not true, either—there was always time. One simply had to make time, and there was always a lot a man did that was trifling and altogether unimportant.

  Thoughts of the town crowded his mind. Red Horse was booming, and he had done this; but now he was impatient, knowing he should be on his way, knowing he had stayed far too long. He had the uncomfortable feeling that things were bunching up on him.

  There was one thing he could do, and he did it. He put on his hat and went down the street and personally thanked each of the men who had stood with him against Buell and his crowd.

  Al Damon was loafing in front of Pearly Gates’ old place, now reopened as a saloon by a big burly man called Spike Maloon. The sight of the boy made Fallon nervous, for he knew what Damon was thinking. Had he not been the son of one of those first settlers of Red Horse, Macon Fallon would not have been disturbed, but he felt he owed those men a debt, and he knew the trouble that was wrapped up in Al Damon.

  Damon turned to look at him as he approached, and there was a challenge in his eyes. Fallon merely glanced at him, saying, “Hello, Al.” Then he paused momentarily. “Riding in the hills lately?”

  Al Damon had been building himself up to say something, to say anything to challenge this man. He kept telling himself he had to kill him. Bellows wanted him killed, and it was up to him to do it. But the sudden remark, dropped so casually into the pool of his small security, sent ripples that rocked his boat of assurance.

  His mouth opened to speak. Did Fallon know? But how could he? Had he been followed? Al felt a sudden chill of apprehension…suppose Fallon told his father?

  But Fallon had turned his back and gone into the saloon.

  Spike Maloon was behind the bar, a powerful man with great, square-knuckled fists and bulging biceps. He took a cigar from between his white, even teeth and looked Fallon over coolly. This was a man who had faced much trouble and had handled it.

  At a table sat a slender, wiry man who got up and strolled to the bar. His features were narrow and hawklike, his eyes set too close together. Fallon glanced at him, noting the way the gambler held his right hand. Wearing a sleeve-gun, Macon, he told himself. Watch this one.

  “I’m Fallon,” he said. “You can run this place as long as you run it honest. One sound like a crooked game, and I’ll close you up.”

  Across the street Joshua Teel had stopped by Al Damon. “Did Fallon go in there?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Teel turned his head and looked up the street to where Devol was loading some gear into a wagon. “Devol—come along down here, will you?”

  Inside the saloon, the gambler looked at Fallon. “You are calling me dishonest?”

  “I am calling you nothing. I know nothing about you. I am simply telling you.”

  “We heard you ran this town,” Maloon said. “We are telling you now…you don’t run this place. We don’t pay your percentage. You won’t close us up.”

  A faint smile crossed Fallon’s face. “We will discuss that when the time comes,” he said quietly. “As for collecting my percentage, I’ll do that.” He glanced at the gambler. “I like a little game myself once in a while.”

  The gambler smiled. “By all means…whenever you’re in the mood.”

  When Fallon emerged upon the street he saw Teel and Devol waiting outside, ready to come in. “Thanks,” he said. “Glad to have you on hand.”

  “Trouble?”

  “There will be.” He paused. “That gambler in there—that’s Card Graham. He’s killed two men over poker games, and at least one over a woman. If you hear any reports of cheating, have him brought to me. Pass the word around, will you?”

  He started to turn away, but stopped. “He carries a sleeve-gun. When a man knows how to use it, it is the fastest draw there is.”

  “Fallon?”

  He turned back to Devol. “Yes?”

  “The big fellow in there—he won’t fight with a gun. He makes a point of never carrying one. He’s a bruiser.”

  Fallon considered that. “Do you know him?”

  “He was one of John Morrissey’s roughnecks back in New York. He belonged to one of the fire companies who fought against Poole and that crowd.”

  Macon Fallon remembered the tremendous brawls in New York some years before, when the rival factions of Morrissey and Poole had met in the streets. Morrissey had, at one time, claimed the heavyweight championship of the world, and was a noted brawler who later founded the gambling in Saratoga and became an important man in New York politics.

  Men were frequently killed in those brawls, to say nothing of the ears torn off, the eyes gouged, or the ugly scars left by teeth or stabbing thumbnails. If Spike Maloon was a graduate of that school, he was a tough man.

  “Get out of here, you damned fool!” Fallon told himself as he walked away. “Get out while the getting’s good.”

  But he did not go. He told himself several times a day he was a fool, but he still stayed on.

  The truth was, he liked the place. The town was growing and, following his example, several of the new residents had begun to plant gardens, trim trees, and generally make the place more attractive.

  There was little trouble in town. The residents were mostly a hard-working lot, and family men. The few drunks were usually passing through, and it was rarely necessary to do more than suggest they go to bed.

  But it was too good to last.

  Trouble began suddenly. A wagon, only a mile the other side of the bridge, was attacked and three people slain.

  Everybody in Red Horse heard the shot, but when they arrived on the scene, the man, his wife, and young son were dead, the wagon looted, the horses driven off. It might have been Utes, but several of the riders rode shod horses.

  “Stolen horses, probably,” Blane suggested. “Ridden by Indians.”

  “Or by white men,” Fallon said grimly. “This is a typical Bellows stunt.”

  And then came the night when Al Damon killed a man.

  The wagons arrived just before
sundown. They were mostly freighters, but several wagons of men with families headed for Oregon had joined the freighters for protection. One of these was a man of about forty, a tall, lean man, who came into town for a drink.

  He stopped at Maloon’s place, had one drink, and then another. During the time he was there he had nothing to say, but when he left the shadowed saloon and stepped out into the bright sunlight he ran into Al Damon.

  He had come out of the saloon fast, like a man who had just remembered something, and when he bumped into Al Damon he staggered Al, knocking him back two steps.

  Al swore and grabbed for his gun. Even as his hand grasped the butt, something inside him seemed to scream No! No!, but he had been thinking of it too long: the gun swung up and he looked across it into the startled eyes of the stranger.

  “Please! I didn’t mean—”

  The gun in Al’s hand seemed to cough, and the man turned around and fell against the side of the building. Then slowly, he sagged down to his knees.

  Somewhere a woman screamed and people came running. The woman threw herself upon the fallen man, screaming and crying, as the stranger again turned half around and, looking at Al Damon with awful, staring eyes he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  The man died that way, against the building, his wife clutching him, her body shuddering with wild sobs. He died with his eyes on Al Damon.

  “Look,” Al protested, “I didn’t—” but nobody was paying any attention.

  “He was packing a gun!” Al’s tone had become pleading. “I saw his gun.”

  Joshua Teel turned from the dead man. “Buttoned into its holster. He was looking for somebody to fix it. Had a broke firing pin.”

  “How could I know that?” Al protested. “I—”

  “You’ve been hunting it,” Budge from the café interrupted. “For days now you’ve been swaggering around, playing tough, letting everybody see you were carrying a gun. Well, now you’ve killed a man…a man who did nobody any harm. You made a widow and three orphans.”

  “You murdered him,” Hamilton said. “That there was murder.”