Novel 1963 - Fallon (v5.0) (8 page)

They fired again and again, and the black, stock horse that he was, nipped at the nearest hindquarters. They were moving now, really moving. Lightning flashed and the leaders stopped and started to mill. Fallon drove at them, lashing them into a run.

Rain began to fall. A few scattered drops, large drops hard driven by the wind, and then a roaring rush of rain…a regular cloudburst. Lightning struck somewhere ahead, and again the leaders stopped and started to turn. Fallon, leaving the drag to Teel, drove through the herd, whipping the leaders on.

Suddenly, above the crash of thunder and the rushing roar of the rain, they heard another sound. The herd was running good now and Fallon fell back.

“Drive 'em!”
he yelled. “It's in the
canyon!
”

With rope and pistol they harried the cattle up the canyon before them, their horses racing back and forth, nipping with their teeth at the frightened creatures. Suddenly Fallon saw, looming ahead, the boulder that marked the cut up which they must drive the cattle.

At the same instant they rounded into a straight stretch of wash that was all of a quarter of a mile long, and even as they turned into the stretch, with the boulder only a few yards ahead, a lightning flash revealed the rolling wall of water.

Twelve feet high, tossing logs on its crest, it came rushing toward them at the speed of an express train. For an instant, Fallon was appalled.

They couldn't make it. There simply wasn't time. This time he'd bought it, and for Josh Teel, too. Then urgency broke through his fear and he screamed.

“Teel!”
He tried to make his voice heard above the roar of the storm. “Let's
go-o-o!
”

Teel caught the wave of his arm in the almost continually flashing lightning, and together they broke for the gap. Almost at the same moment, a lead steer saw the gap, too, and recognized the way home. Bawling frightfully, the huge ox started for the gap, and in an instant, all were following. Caught up in the rush, Fallon was swept along, and suddenly, through the bawling of cattle and the roar of the rushing water, he heard a lost, despairing cry.

Even as he was swept upward to safety, he glanced back and saw that Josh Teel was down, his leg pinned under his fallen horse.

He did not think, he did not pause to estimate the risks involved. He might kill the horse, he might hit Teel, but there was only one chance for them. The horse was lying still. He wanted to burn the animal with a bullet, to make it get up or give Teel a chance to free his leg.

Fallon drew his pistol and chopped down, firing as the gun came level. The horse screamed and lunged and, scrambling to its feet, it went for the gap, and made it.

The roaring of the water drowned all other sound, but Teel, free of the horse, threw his body around and grabbed for the rocky wall of the wash. And then the flood rushed upon him and he was submerged, vanishing under the dark, glistening water.

Dropping from his horse, Fallon took the rope from the pommel and rushed to the bank. As he ran, he shook out a loop. Never better than a fair roper, and long out of practice, he knew it was Teel's one wild chance now…if the Missourian was not already dead, already swept away.

The wash was filled with the racing water, running ten feet deep, tossing logs and debris. How long would it last? An hour? Two hours? Three? Teel's body would be carried far in that time, carried down the canyon and out upon the desert.

Fallon worked his way toward the edge, watching out for cracks that might tumble him into the wash. Even as he neared the edge, a huge chunk, a dozen feet long and half as wide, was torn from the opposite bank and fell into the stream.

He drew closer to the spot where Teel had vanished. Here, clinging to his loop—the other end was tied fast to the pommel of the saddle—he lay down in the mud and peered over the edge.

Below him was a ghostly white hand, slipping on the wet rock. And below that was Teel's face, barely out of the water; his other hand clinging to the rock with a precarious grip.

All that saved him from the violent current was a shoulder of rock that, projecting scarcely a foot into the stream, broke the current just enough so he had not been torn free. Yet even as Fallon saw him, Teel's fingers began to slip.

Reaching over, Fallon dug his knees into the damp earth to give him purchase, and grasped Teel's wrist.

Slippery…too slippery.

With his free hand, depending on the slight grip with his knees to keep him from falling over into the water, Fallon shook out a loop and dropped it. The loop missed, but Teel was no fool. He was a tough man who had fought for life before, and he did not weaken now. Deliberately, he bobbed his head into the noose, then with a quick, desperate look at Fallon, he let go with his other hand and thrust it through the loop.

Instantly his whole weight was on Fallon's slippery wrist-grip, and the movement jerked Fallon's knees loose. His knees skidded in the mud, and with a gasp of panic, Fallon felt himself going over.

Wildly, he grabbed out and caught the rope. It tore through his hand, but his grip held. Then his body struck Teel's with a thud, and the two men clung together. Fighting for his life against the tug of the current, Fallon got his arm through the same loop with Teel.

Rain beat at their faces with angry fingers, and the rushing water tore at their bodies. Once a heavy chunk of wood struck Fallon in the side and he cried out in pain, but the rope remained taut.

Carefully, Fallon began to feel against the bank for a foothold. If he could just get a little slack in the rope…

Teel, who knew as much about a roping horse as Fallon, caught on at once, and dug for a toehold. If they could just get some slack.

They got it, and the black instantly backed up to keep the rope taut, and they had gained a few inches. Again they tried, and Teel got a foothold, although Fallon could get none, but Teel got an arm under Fallon's shoulders and heaved him up enough to get the slack they needed. Promptly the black horse backed up, tightening the rope again.

But that was the end of it.

Only inches above them was the edge, and water swirled about their hips. They could find no foothold. The only consolation was that Fallon knew the black would hold. He would keep that rope tight until he fell from exhaustion.

That black horse had roped too many bad steers, mean longhorns, and bulls that were fighters. It was his job to keep that rope tight, and it was thus he had been trained. He would keep the rope tight until doomsday, and after.

Sagging in the loop, which cut into their bodies, they waited. Fallon's arms ached. His hand, burned on the rope, was raw and bloody, and the pain was frightful.

The great roaring of the water had ceased, but it still rushed around them, still tugged at their bodies; but the awful, tearing violence of it was gone. It was still dangerous, but the black horse was holding them.

“She's fallin'!” Teel shouted in Fallon's ear. “Below my hip pockets now!”

After a few more minutes the fall was obvious. And now, on his right, Fallon saw an outthrust of rock.

Reaching out, he got a foot on it and pushed up; the black horse instantly took up the slack. Fallon swung a hand up and got hold of the edge. Teel's boots fought for a toehold and dug in, and suddenly they both had arms over the edge and the black took up the slack so suddenly that they found themselves over the edge and sprawled in a muddy tangle.

Teel struggled to his feet and stood swaying. “You surely picked a lousy night for a ride!” he said wryly.

Fallon got up and spoke to the black horse, which walked toward them. “I could do with some coffee,” he said.

“Hell!” Teel said. “I could do with a drink, although I've sworn off the stuff.”

Riding double, they rode back into town.

It was breaking day when they came into the street, covered with mud, and exhausted but hilarious. Damon was out, sweeping off his walk, and he looked at them in astonishment.

“What happened to you two?” he asked.

Teel was not a man given to saving face or mincing words. Briefly, he told what had happened. “We could have lost the herd,” he said at the end, “and you've eight or nine head there yourself.”

“I can't understand it,” Damon said. “Al wouldn't—”

“He was drunk,” Pete Shoyer interrupted. Shoyer was a late-comer and owed no loyalty to Damon. “I got up to close a window and saw him ridin' up the street. Chances are he's back there in the stable, sleepin' it off.”

A
L DAMON AWAKENED slowly. The first thing he smelled was the fresh hay beneath him; and opening his eyes, he found himself staring up at the low rafters in the shed behind the store, which served them as a stable.

He rolled over and pushed himself up, sitting back and looking around. His head throbbed heavily and his mouth tasted awful. His pistol had fallen from its holster, and he picked it up and slipped it back in place.

The sun was high in the sky. The morning noises were around him, but they were late noises. No roosters were crowing, but a hen that had laid an egg was cackling.

He got up, then staggered against a doorpost, holding his head.

His horse was gone…the saddle was gone. He looked outside and cringed as the sunlight struck his eyes. He'd better find that horse and get the stock out on the grass. Pa would—

The horse was nowhere in the stable, nor was it outside, as he half expected it to be. Hitching up his belt, he put on his hat and went striding angrily into the store.

“Where's my horse?” he demanded. “Somebody rode off on my horse.”

His father looked up. “The horse you call yours,” he said coldly, “belongs to Blane, and Jim Blane is riding it now. He also has your job of riding herd on the stock.”

Al Damon was feeling mad, but his father intervened before his son could give vent to his anger.

“You were drunk,” the older man said bitterly; “filthy, dirty drunk and sprawled in the hay. If it hadn't been for Teel and Fallon we'd have lost everything last night, and no fault of yours that we didn't.”

“What happened?”

Joshua Teel had told the story, and he had told it in concise and often profane terms. Joshua Teel was no storyteller, but starkly told, the happenings of the night were clear to everyone.

“What I want to know,” Damon asked, “is where you got the whiskey. Brennan didn't sell it to you.”

“None o' your damn business!”

Damon's face went white. “Don't you speak to me like that!” He came from behind the counter. “You've been behaving like a young tough long enough. You will take that pistol off and you will leave it here in the store. And you will get up in the morning—every morning—and help me here.”

“I ain't a-gonna do it!” Al shouted. “I ain't no kid! I'll do what I damn' well please!”

He walked out of the store and stopped on the walk. He could hear the ring of Blane's hammer on the anvil over at the blacksmith shop, and he started in that direction. Then he stopped. Blane was worse than his pa. No use trying to talk to him.

There were still some silver dollars in his pocket, and he started for the saloon. Then he hesitated…Fallon would be there. About this time he usually ate breakfast, and Al did not want to see Fallon. Not this morning.

Fallon was a hero, a big man. He had saved their stock—or made out like he had. What was there to that? Just driving the cattle up out of the wash.

Al Damon stood there on the street, and his head ached. He dreaded seeing his mother, so going to the house was out of the question. And he didn't even have a horse.

The enormity of that struck him hard. Without a horse, he could not get to see Bellows. Without a horse, he couldn't go anywhere, do anything! And how could he explain to Bellows that he, who aspired to be a member of an outlaw gang, had his horse taken from him like any brat of a kid?”

He walked slowly down the street and, looking toward the flat, he glimpsed a rider moving along the wash. It was Fallon. There was no other horse like that around.

Al Damon turned quickly and went up the street to the Yankee Saloon. Brennan was standing behind the bar smoking his morning cigar.

“How's for some coffee?” Al Damon said. “And maybe a couple of them eggs?”

Brennan turned, picked up the pot, and filled a cup. “No eggs,” he said, sliding the cup across the bar. “Too hard to come by.”

Al Damon was about to make an angry reply, but he kept his mouth shut. He had a feeling that whatever he might say would be ignored by Brennan.

After a moment he spoke. “They fired me,” he said, “just because I had a couple of drinks. Hell, I didn't do nothin'.”

Brennan took the cigar from his mouth and looked thoughtfully at the ash. It was building evenly and well. He put the cigar back in his mouth and looked down the street toward the flat.

“All over nothin',” Al Damon complained. “Those cattle were all right. That ol' dam won't hold water, nohow.”

Brennan took his cup and went over to the coffee pot to fill it. Fallon should be back soon, and he was looking forward to it.

Fallon puzzled him. What kind of a man was he? The events of the previous night had told him nothing he had not known. That Fallon had nerve and that he would come through when the going was rough—that he had taken for granted. What interested Brennan was what kind of a man he was otherwise. Macon Fallon was a man who held his own thoughts, expressing them rarely and to few men.

“That Fallon,” Al Damon said, “he makes me tired!”

Brennan took the cigar from his mouth again, this time quickly, angrily. The ash fell off and he swore, staring down at it.

“He wears that gun around,” Al Damon went on; “not even a notch on it. Not one!”

Brennan's anger stirred him to speak. It irritated him that he did speak, for he did not want to. A saloon wasn't the same as any place else. In a saloon a man was entitled to speak his mind, as long as it didn't offend anybody, and if it did, then the speaker was answerable for it. But a saloon was a place for a man to come with his troubles, and a bartender made a habit of listening without really paying much attention, unless the speaker was a friend.