Fallon (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 12

  Fallon bluffed on a small pair, but Graham was no longer sure, and would not go along.

  Fallon was keenly aware of Graham’s problems. It takes time to get the cards in place for a crooked deal, and it is easier when the game is stud and some of the cards can be seen each time a hand is played, exposed on the table and easy for the pick-up. At stud it is comparatively easy to follow the cards one wants, separate and stock them for a bottom deal. In draw poker the selection is limited by the number of cards that can be seen, for unless a cold deck can be introduced into the game, the necessary cards must be located and stocked.

  Also, the fewer involved in the game the fewer the cards that can be seen. Fallon wondered which ones Graham would select. His own elaborate appearance of ease was deliberately calculated to infuriate the gambler.

  The game seesawed back and forth. For a while others joined in, but the contest was so obviously between the two men that they were glad to get out. Everybody in Red Horse knew the game was on, and everybody knew it could only end in trouble.

  Spike Maloon sat or walked behind the bar and watched the progress of the game with cynical eyes. They were eyes that had looked upon much that was evil, little that was good, and upon many men who were hard, brutal men in their hours of trial. More and more he found his eyes shifting to Macon Fallon.

  His own future rode with Graham’s winning, but as the hours passed he saw that Graham was playing a losing game. The cards were erratic, no long winning streaks coming to either man, with Graham unable to control them as he wished. And even when he could, Fallon seemed to pull away from every trap by instinct as much as by card sense.

  There was nothing Maloon could do. He had brought the cold deck to the table, but Fallon had been ready for them, so he could only sit it out. Men came and went; gradually as the night wore on they tired out and the crowd dwindled. Joshua Teel remained. Devol left, but Riordan came. And when the Yankee Saloon closed, John Brennan came down to Maloon’s place.

  Card Graham was sweating. He could make nothing work for him tonight, but half an hour ago he had stolen an ace, and now he had another. Three times he had set Fallon up for a trimming, and each time he had failed. He had managed to give him a full house, only to have Fallon discard and ask for three cards. He caught himself just as he was about to look up, like any greenhorn.

  Fallon had a memory for cards. It was a priceless asset to a gambler, and Fallon suddenly realized that it had been some time since he had seen the ace of diamonds. He picked up the deck…thin…it was a thin deck. One or two cards were gone. A gambler learns to judge such things, but even though he might be wrong, he was not prepared to risk it.

  He put the cards down. “This deck is bad luck,” he declared. “Neither of us has done any good with it. Let’s have a new deck.”

  Graham felt a sudden surge of viciousness, and a wild impulse to leap up and slap Fallon across the mouth. Two aces out, and a switch in decks!

  On the back bar there was a pack of cards that had not been there when Maloon brought the tray to the table. They had appeared on the back bar right afterward. Undoubtedly this was the stacked deck they had tried to slip into the game.

  As Maloon started to reach under the back bar for a deck of cards, Fallon indicated the deck on the back bar. “We’ll use that one,” he said.

  Maloon hesitated the briefest instant, then brought the deck to the table. Graham started to interrupt, then stopped. It could be a trap. It could be a means of exposing him, for after all, this was his place. He was the gambler in this saloon.

  As he took the deck Fallon managed a glance at the bottom card…a trey…an unlikely card for part of a bottom stock. The chances were that the arranged cards were at the top. As Graham had planned to cheat him, the first card was intended to go to the sucker, the second to the winner, and so forth.

  Talking easily, Fallon took the deck, undercut about three-fourths of the deck, injogged the first card, and shuffled off to the break, then threw the remainder on top. He worked with the practiced skill of years, a skill that had worked on the riverboats and in the crowded gambling salons of New York, Saratoga, New Orleans, St. Louis and Cleveland.

  He pushed the deck toward Graham for the cut, talking as he did so. Graham cut the deck and Fallon picked it up, commented on the gun a spectator was wearing, and at the same time did a one-hand shift of the cut, shielding the move with his right hand as they came together.

  Shifting the cut was a standard practice of the skilled card sharp, for a stacked deck is relatively useless without returning the cut cards to their original position. Fallon knew half a dozen methods, but preferred the one-hand shift.

  The packet of cards that he wanted on top had to go on the bottom when picked up, so as he brought the two packets together in his left hand he held a slight break open between them with his second finger. It required much practice to tilt the bottom half of the deck and slide the upper packet beneath it, but it could be done instantaneously, returning the cards to their original arrangement before the cut was made.

  Light was just breaking in the street outside when Fallon dealt the hand. Card Graham stared at his cards, then threw them aside in disgust, recognizing them as the hand he had set up in the cold deck for Fallon. Fallon simply grinned, raking in the few chips.

  Half an hour later he saw his chance. Graham had won two small pots by straight poker, and was beginning to feel his luck had changed. He also won a third hand, with a full house, aces and queens.

  As Fallon swept the cards together, he noted the position of the aces, including one from his own hand, and the queens. He did a fast cull shuffle, picking up the other two queens in the process, and after the cut did another one-hand shift of the cut. When he dealt the cards, he gave Graham three queens.

  As for himself, he held his cards, staring at them, glancing at the pot, at Graham, finally seeing Graham’s bet and raising. On the draw he gave Graham the fourth queen and another card, taking two cards himself. On the showdown, with two thousand dollars in the pot, he showed four aces to Graham’s four queens.

  Graham stared at the cards, his face slowly turning pale and ugly. When he looked up at Fallon his eyes were vicious. “Why, you—!”

  Macon Fallon had never felt more calm, more ready. “You killed two men, Graham, after cheating them of their money. You tried to cheat me, but you’re small-time, Graham. You aren’t really good with cards, and you never will be. On the River they would laugh at you.

  “Now I am going to give you a chance. I am going to give you ten minutes to get out of town!”

  Card Graham was trembling inside, trembling with hatred and bitterness, and yet with eagerness. He was going to kill Fallon. He was going to shoot him in the guts and let him die slow.

  He reached for his hat with his left hand and picked it up. He brought it across in front of him and reached for the edge with his right hand, as though to put his hat on with both hands. His right hand disappeared behind the hat, and Macon Fallon shot him.

  Fallon’s gun blasted, tearing a hole in the crown of Graham’s hat and driving the middle button on his belt back into his belly.

  The hat fell, revealing Graham’s smashed hand and bloody fingers and the half-drawn derringer fastened by a metal clip to his left wrist, under the coat sleeve.

  Graham backed up, fell to the edge of a chair and it turned over, spilling him to the floor. He bumped the table as he fell, and a black ace fell with him.

  Macon Fallon watched the group of men carefully. His eyes went from one to another, but no one spoke until Riordan said, “He had his gun in his hand when you shot him.”

  Fallon stood up and gathered the money from the table. He then put all he had won on the table and split it into three equal piles. One of these he pocketed.

  “Josh,” he said, “each one of those widows gets one of these, and if they will stay in R
ed Horse we will find homes for them.”

  “They didn’t lose anywhere near that much,” Teel said.

  “They lost their husbands in my town,” Fallon replied shortly. “Take it to them.”

  Fallon walked out into the street and squinted his eyes against the morning sun. He was suddenly tired, very tired. But he had his stake. With the price of the claim he had sold, with the money won in the game with Graham, he had at least twelve thousand dollars.

  He could go now. He was through here.

  CHAPTER 6

  MACON FALLON STOOD at the window of his rooms above the Yankee Saloon and looked down the street of the town he had created from the ashes of fraud. His eyes were cynical, his mouth twisted wryly. Tomorrow he would ride out. It would be hours before they realized he was not coming back.

  Red Horse had served him well, but he needed it no longer, and the bright lights of San Francisco and the Palace Hotel were calling. Disturbingly, he found his eyes hesitating over the fields, now green with crops.

  The water supply was not to be depended on, so what they must do was drill a well or two down on the flat. There was a good chance of hitting water there, close under the mountain’s edge.

  The town needed a shoemaker, too. Maybe the harnessmaker could take it on. It also needed a tailor, and an effort should be made to get one out here.

  He swore suddenly, angry with himself for his foolish thoughts. Once Pollock found out there was no gold on his claim, the lid would blow off and the people would be gone, even faster than they had left before. His only chance would be to get out first, before they discovered the town was based on a lie.

  He glanced down at his gear. He would need another canteen, a little more food. He put on his hat and went down the stairs, nodding to Brennan as he passed. Brennan put his cigar down on the edge of the bar and watched Fallon down the street. Brennan’s eyes showed worry.

  Fallon crossed the street and went into the Damon store. He was well inside the door before he saw that the store was empty except for Ginia Blane, who was behind the counter.

  He started to go out, but her voice stopped him. “Mr. Fallon, is there something I can do for you?”

  Turning back, he walked to the counter. “Yes.” He spoke shortly, crisply, wanting no talk. “You can sell me a canteen. I notice you have several in stock.”

  “Of course.” She looked into his eyes. “Are you going somewhere?”

  Damn the girl! He flashed her an angry look before he could put a guard on his feelings, then he replied, “Oh, I scout around the country a good deal, and I want to look over the desert west of here.”

  She got the canteen for him and filled his other requests. He commented on her working in the store.

  “Mr. Damon is in the fields today, and Al won’t help him, so he hired me.” She looked into his eyes again. “You must be careful. Al Damon does not like you.”

  He was surprised at her warning. “I should think it would please you if something happened to rid the town of me.”

  “Indeed, it would not. We need you.”

  “The town needs no one.” He gathered his purchases. He hesitated an instant, suddenly reluctant to leave. Glancing at her, he surprised her blue eyes wide with some unexpected emotion, and it startled and upset him. He glanced hurriedly away. “There is no such thing as an indispensable man.”

  “You are wrong. There are often indispensable men.” She stepped closer to the counter. “Mr. Fallon, I have much to learn, and some of it Mr. Teel has been explaining to me. I know what you did with that money you won. I know why you played that game, risking all you had.”

  “I played it to win,” he said. “Graham was not the sort of man a town needs.”

  She frowned at him. “I can’t begin to understand you, Mr. Fallon. You are a gambler, and yet in this town you have tolerated no gamblers. You have deliberately chosen men who have trades, substantial men.”

  “Gamblers are birds of passage. I am a bird of passage.”

  “And so you would leave us?”

  “I’ve said nothing about leaving,” he replied impatiently, “but what difference would it make if I did? The first time they had a chance to be rid of me, they tried it. They will try again.”

  “Feelings change. I believe the attitude has changed here.”

  She came from behind the counter and he walked a step or two toward the door, but she came up to him. “I think you are a fraud, Mr. Fallon. I think you are a tremendous fraud!”

  His smile was sardonic. “I thought you knew that…you accused me of switching the town’s name for some…some reason or other.”

  “I do not mean that. I think you are a fraud, Mr. Fallon, because I believe you are a good man and a good citizen masquerading as a gambler, a cheat, and a drifter.”

  “You talk like a fool!” he said sharply. “You’re a romantic child!”

  He stepped outside quickly before she could say more, and walked swiftly up the street. He swore bitterly. Damn the girl.

  Suddenly he paused. One more thing he would do. He would close out Maloon.

  Turning on his heel, he went down the street and entered the saloon. There were half a dozen men drinking at the bar. The card tables were empty.

  He wasted no time. “Maloon, you tossed that shotgun to Graham. I heard of that. You tolerated his presence here. We do not want your kind. Brennan will buy you out for what you have invested…then get out.”

  Spike Maloon took the cigar from his mouth and squinted through the smoke.

  “And if I do not?”

  “We will run you out.”

  “We?” Spike Maloon picked up his cigar and glanced at it. “You would need help, of course. I never use a gun, so you’d have no excuse to use one on me.”

  “You have been told. Now sell out, and get out.”

  “Too bad,” Maloon said, running his eyes over Fallon. “I’d not have believed you were yellow. You stand up pretty well, good shoulders, good hands. I would have guessed you could take care of yourself. But you always have that gun to hide behind…and now you hide behind this ‘we’ you speak of.

  “But it is just as well. You’d have no more chance with me with your hands than I would with you with a gun.”

  Fallon knew he was being baited, deliberately baited by a man who was positive of what he could do. There were others standing about, but he knew they expected nothing of him. No doubt there was not a man present who would not think him wise to leave things as they were.

  Yet there was a lurking devil of Irish madness in him, and he looked at Spike Maloon with real pleasure. “It is a foolish thing you do,” he said cheerfully, “to challenge me in this way. You have a reputation as a fearful man with your fists, Spike Maloon, and when it comes to that, you have nothing else. Lose that, and you will have nothing at all. It is not a thing to be lightly risked.”

  Spike Maloon’s surprise did not show on his face, but surprised he was, and profoundly. He had it in mind to dare Fallon into a fight and then whip him within an inch of his life—destroy him, in fact. Yet Fallon’s way of rising to the bait made him wary…could the man fight, then?

  “I’ll lose nothing. The man never lived who could handmuck a Maloon, but if you’ve a mind to fight, then stack your duds and grease your skids, for I shall tear down your meat-house!”

  Suddenly, Macon Fallon felt good. He felt fine. This was a fitting thing, this last bit he could do for Red Horse, and for himself as well. For weeks now he had been a discontented man, with much wearing on his mind, and not always certain of the way to go. But in a fight, a slam-bang, knock-down and drag-out fist fight there were no complications. It was root-hog or die, and suddenly and with pleasure, he took off his gun belt.

  In an instant the yell went up the street, “Fight! Fight! It’s Fallon and Maloon!…Fight!”

  And
they came running—from all the corners of town they came running.

  At the Yankee Saloon, John Brennan heard the cry and turned around so sharply that the ash fell from his cigar. “The man’s daft!” he exclaimed. “He’s bloody daft!”

  Devol started to his feet to rush to the fight, but Teel’s voice brought him up short. “Think, man!” he yelled. “Remember what we were told!”

  Brennan grabbed up a bucket and caught up some water in it, and then filled a bottle with it, fresh and cold. With a towel over his arm, he started down the street, not forgetting the lock on the door he closed behind him.

  Spike Maloon was stripped to the waist in the street and Macon Fallon was carefully folding his coat over the hitch rail when Brennan arrived.

  “He has forty pounds on you,” Brennan said, “as well as height and reach. Is there a way out, then?”

  “Through him,” Fallon replied, grinning. “The way out is through him. The only way out is to tear him apart or beat him down, for he stands across my way.”

  “Have at it, then, but he has a jaw like granite, I’ve heard. You’d best not waste your hands on it.”

  It looked as if the whole town was there, and not the last was Ginia Blane, for she left the store almost running, slamming the door locked behind her. Something winked at the corner of her eye as she ran, some sudden flash of sunlight, but she gave it no thought.

  Lute Semple was on the upper floor with a mirror, playing the flash against the far-off hills. A moment later there came an answering flash, and he put the mirror down and picked up his rifle, checking the load.

  He glanced at the sun…how long would it take them? “Make it last, Fallon,” he whispered to himself. “Make it last!”

  Macon Fallon stripped to the waist and accepted from Brennan a pair of driving gloves, into which he slipped his hands.

  Maloon looked at them and laughed. “You’re a fool, man,” he said. “They’ll do you no good.”