Novel 1963 - Fallon (v5.0) (12 page)

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

M
ACON 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 Pool 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.”

Al Damon backed off. He was suddenly sick inside, and he knew he was about to throw up. He had to get off the street before that happened. Abruptly, he turned into an alleyway.

He had killed a man.

He half fell against the building and was sick. How could he know the man was carrying a useless gun? The man had shoved him…well, it seemed like that, anyway.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went around behind the buildings.

He wanted to go home, but the thought of his mother's eyes stopped that idea. Instead, he climbed over the corral bars and went into the stable, where he crawled back on the freshly cut hay and put his back against the wall.

The staring eyes of the dying man and those frightful sobs stayed with him. He cowered there, and finally he slept.

When he awoke it was dark. He listened for some sound, but heard nothing. He crawled out of the hay and carefully brushed himself off; and then he thought of his gun, and he reloaded the empty chamber.

Well, suppose he did kill that stranger? He asked for it, didn't he? He came barreling out of that door and almost knocked him down. Why, when it came to that, he had acted in self-defense. Looked like he was being jumped on—how was he to know?

He looked down at his gun. He had killed a man. He could file a notch on it now. The momentary twinge he had felt was stifled by a growing pride. It wasn't everybody could say that…that they'd killed a man.

When he got back on the street he hitched his gun a little further forward. All right…so let them talk. If they got tough with him he'd…

The street was empty. Lights shone from a few windows. It was after suppertime and he was hungry. He went into the restaurant.

Two strangers were there, and both got up very pointedly and walked toward the door, leaving their food. Budge came from the kitchen with coffee just as they were leaving. “Hey, here's your coffee!” he called.

“Forget it,” one man said. “We'd rather go hungry.”

Al Damon felt the blood rising to his face. Should he call them on that? He started to turn, uncertain as to what he should do, when Budge spoke.

“Get out,” he said coldly, “and don't come in here again. We don't serve your kind.”

Al hesitated, appalled and angry. Budge stooped and took a double-barreled shotgun from under the counter. “Get going,” he said. “If it was up to me, there'd be a hanging party tonight.”

Al walked out onto the street. They couldn't talk that way to him! Just wait—he'd show them!

He needed a horse—above all things, he needed a horse. To hell with them! He would ride and join Bellows!

But where to go now? He still had no desire to go home, and he suspected the feeling evidenced by Budge would be present almost everywhere. And then he thought of the Yankee Saloon.

Fallon would probably be there. He might not be, but if he was, it was high time they met, for now they would meet on a new footing. Fallon must respect him now. Moreover, Brennan was a man who censured no man. Even in the short time since his arrival in Red Horse, his philosophy had become known. John Brennan turned no man from his bar.