Novel 1963 - Fallon (v5.0) (11 page)

When they had gone, Fallon stepped up to the bar. The men who stood there were mostly good men, he thought, as he glanced along the bar. He said, “John, the drinks are on me. Serve these gentlemen, will you?”

Then he spoke more quietly. “Gentlemen, I quite understand how exorbitant my demands must seem, but when the town has been put into some sort of shape, the amount will be cut—cut quite liberally. We need good men here. Now, if any of you wish to remain you may talk to Mr. Brennan or, in the morning, to me.”

He turned away and went up the stairs.

When he had closed the door behind him he stood still, soaked with perspiration. His collar felt tight, his coat was hot. He peeled off the coat and sat down astride a chair, his arms leaning on the back.

He still could not believe he had won.

G
INIA BLAME WAS sewing, but she was also listening. The story of the events at the Yankee Saloon had swept the town, and her father could not believe it. Neither could Damon, and they had been talking it over since breakfast.

Her father had been one of the leaders in the move to oust Fallon from control of the town, and Damon had been with him all the way. For the first time since she could remember, Al and his father had agreed about something. There had been others, of course. That her father had expected to be chosen as Mayor she knew, and she also knew what a shock it had been when the newcomers had deliberately shunted him aside.

Ginia Blane knew nothing of politics, but she had sense enough to recognize organization; and when Buell had been nominated the seconding of the motion had come too quickly—obviously the motion and its seconding had been agreed upon beforehand.

Budge had then been nominated, a man with no chance for election, and then a motion had come to move the nominations be closed and that was promptly seconded. Buell's election had been a foregone conclusion.

Her father still did not know what had happened to him, but he had been rudely shocked by the manner in which he had been shunted aside, and he could not believe they had failed, even then, to cope with Fallon.

Her father could not face Fallon, and she did not blame him for that.

Al Damon was there also, and he moved his leg, now easing the position of the gun he wore. Al, Ginia decided, was afraid somebody would not realize that he was wearing a gun. Al was puzzled.

“But what did he
do?
” he demanded. “You say he just sat there. He must have done
something
.”

Needham was telling about it, and he was enjoying it. “I tell you he didn't
do
anything!” He chuckled. “Why, you'd of thought he was the schoolmaster and that there Buell a young boy brought up for discipline. He made Buell look like a fool; and then of course, he told him about the water.”

“The water?”

“That he owned it. That he would shut off anybody who didn't want to pay up. He did say he'd give traveling water to anybody who wanted to leave.”

Ginia thought…of course, of course, why didn't I realize that? Without water, nobody can live, and the water is his.

“A man could slip down at night and get water from back of the dam,” Damon suggested. “He couldn't watch all of that.”

“That water?” Mrs. Damon sniffed. “I wouldn't drink it…or wash with it, if there was anything else. Cattle walk in it, drink from it—everything.”

“I don't know why everybody is so anxious to be rid of him,” Ginia interrupted. “What has he done? He's worked harder and done more than anybody else in town.”

“I've worked as hard as anybody!” Blane protested.

“You worked very hard,” Ginia agreed, “in your own shop and for your own profit. Fallon built the dam. Fallon weeded the street, trimmed the trees, repaired the boardwalks, and did a hundred little things to make the town a good place to live.”

“Well, he's gettin' paid for it, too!” Damon said resentfully.

“And why not?” Ginia broke her thread, and held up the blouse she was making and studied it critically. “And when I think of what you almost did, I feel positively ill. That Gleason! Every time he looked at me I felt like taking a bath. And you all wanted a change—thank heavens, you didn't get it!”

They were silent, but unconvinced.

T
HE YANKEE SALOON was cool and still. The only sound was that made by Macon Fallon, idly shuffling a deck of cards. He built his bottom stock with care, dealt four hands, and glanced at his own.

Brennan picked up the hand nearest him as he passed the table. Four nines. He picked up the second, it was four sixes. “Not bad,” he said dryly. “Are they all that good?”

“Mine is better,” Fallon said, and spread four kings on the table.

Brennan put his cloth upon the end of the bar and sat down. He lighted a fresh cigar. Macon Fallon watched him, smiling a little. Brennan had something on his mind.

“Al Damon,” Brennan said, taking the cigar from his lips, “was the first one I heard who talked of an election.”

Macon Fallon swept the cards together, cut them, shifted the cut, and built a center stock, cut to the center and had his stock on the bottom, ready for dealing.

“You know, and I know,” Brennan continued, “that it is not likely he thought of that himself. His pa may have, but Al was talking it up before I ever heard a word of it from Blane or Damon.”

Macon Fallon dealt himself two aces face up, then second-dealt a third ace.

“Those silver dollars, now.” Brennan drew deep on his cigar. “Damon never spends any silver money that I've seen, but that's all Al ever spends.

“I've been keeping track…nobody spends silver dollars but him. Silver money is scarce in camp…fact of the matter is, any kind of money is scarce.”

“So?”

“That Bellows man…Lute Semple. He was in here the other night…he paid for his drinks with a silver dollar-mint new.”

Fallon made a neat stack of the deck and put it down on the table. “Do you think Al is meeting some of the Bellows outfit?”

“He didn't get whiskey from me. He had whiskey. There's no silver money in town except half dollars, and he has new silver dollars.”

Brennan looked at the lengthening ash on his cigar. “About three months ago an Army pay wagon bound from Carson to Fort Churchill was robbed. Four men killed…it was laid to Indians.”

Brennan looked up at Fallon. “That Army payroll was mostly in brand-new silver dollars.”

Fallon looked out the doorway, watching the sunlight fall across the walk. It all tied in with the fire where somebody had been meeting-nobody would purposely camp in such a spot—and with the empty whiskey bottle he had found.

“You could be right,” he said. Then he told Brennan about the fire he had found.

“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.”