Novel 1963 - Fallon (v5.0) (10 page)

His guess was that they were gold. He had worked as a miner, but had had little to do with gold except as money. Several mines in which he had worked had no visible gold before the ore was milled.

If this was gold, he might get enough at the bottom of the small falls further down the slope to salt one of his claims; but to return here would mean risking another run-in with the Utes. While he stayed there in the shade beside the spring, he washed out a tiny stack of gold, which he carefully put away in an old envelope he'd been carrying in his coat pocket.

Returning, he decided, was unnecessary. It was far easier to salt a claim with imagination than with gold. After all, it was what a man imagined he would get from a claim that sold him, not what he actually saw. Often it was easier to sell a man a worthless hole in the ground than a good prospect.

He was hungry, for he had eaten nothing since breakfast of the previous day, except for an occasional handful of pine nuts. But he had no food and he hesitated to fire a shot for fear it would bring the Utes around him. It was not the first time he had been hungry, and he had long ago learned that grumbling about what can't be helped did no good at all. Remounting his horse, he worked his way farther along the slope. The dome he had seen was off to the northwest and, as near as he could judge, not more than four miles away.

He was high up…judging by the plant growth around him, he was upwards of ten thousand feet. He had gone but a short distance toward the dome when the ground fell steeply away into a magnificent gorge, wild and lonely. His eyes followed it toward the northwest.

This could be the gorge he had started up when leaving the hollow by the old Indian trail, and had veered off to the south. If it was that gorge, he was well on his way home—if he could only get down to the bottom of the canyon. But nowhere did there seem to be a route by which he could descend. He was trapped on an island in the sky, not over three miles long and about half a mile wide.

He turned his horse and rode southwest again, back toward the Indians. On the east this plateau fell steeply away for a thousand feet or more, and then there was another steep descent, not quite so abrupt, to the bottom of Smoky Valley.

Finally, after hours of searching, he found a way off the top, and went over the rim, the black horse almost sliding on his haunches. After going down several hundred feet, accompanied by cascades of sand and gravel, he found a game trail. After a mile it began a descent to the bottom of the canyon, and he followed it down.

He had been on the mountain the whole day, and when he reached the bottom it was dark.

Knowing enough of such canyons, he made no attempt to go further, but found a bench beside the stream and made camp. The bottoms of such canyons were littered with boulders, fallen logs, debris of all kinds, and there were, as well, sudden falls that might drop off for fifty feet or more. Usually, if one could find it, there would be an Indian trail or a game trail skirting the edge of the creek. This would show him the way around any falls there might be.

At noon the following day, Fallon rode up the street of Red Horse, a Red Horse such as he had never seen. The street was crowded with wagons and with strangers. Suddenly he saw Blane and started toward him. Blane looked up, saw him coming, and abruptly turned away and went inside, closing the door behind him.

Surprised, Fallon rode on up the street. A new saloon had opened and above a door near the saloon was a sign: OFFICE OF THE MAYOR.

Brennan watched him tie his horse and came out on the street. “You played hell,” he said. “Where've you been?”

Briefly, Fallon explained.

“Last night,” Brennan said, “they had an election. It was Blane and Damon behind it, and Al talking it up all over town. The way I figure, Blane expected to be mayor…well, he didn't get to even have a look-in. This newcomer, he had the votes from the wagon train, and he was elected. Not only that, but he appointed himself a marshal and a deputy marshal.”

Fallon looked at Brennan unbelievingly.

“That's right,” Brennan said, “a marshal and a deputy, and if I ever looked on a troublemaker, it's that Gleason. He's big and he's mean, and he's been asking around for you.”

“I'll be here.”

“Fallon,” Brennan said, “go easy. There's at least sixty men here now who weren't here when you left, and those men only know that you're supposed to own the town. They don't accept that—not for a minute, they don't. The rest of them accepted it because they figured they owed you something. This bunch don't figure they owe you anything.”

Macon Fallon looked down the street, anger stirring within him. This was
his
town. He had started it, he had cleaned up the street, he had…But what was he kicking about? After all, he only wanted to sell a couple of claims and get out.

“Maybe it will all work out for the best,” he said. “We'll see.”

Brennan was surprised at Fallon's words. He was not sure what he had expected, but it was not this.

Fallon went into the saloon and drank coffee until Brennan brought him a meal. As he sat there he did some serious thinking.

Later, alone in his upstairs apartment, he wrote three letters. He had just completed them when there was a rap on his door. It was Joboy, Brennan's Negro handyman.

“Boss says there's somebody downstairs to see you all.” Joboy hesitated. “It's that mayor fella and the marshal.”

Fallon got to his feet. Carefully, he put on his black coat. But first he checked his gun.

“Mr. Fallon,” he said, looking at himself in the cracked mirror, “luck!” And then he added, “You may need it.”

As soon as he reached the head of the stairs, he could see he was in for trouble. The bar was lined with men, all strangers.

“Joboy,” he said over his shoulder to the Negro, “tell Josh Teel I want to see him.”

Joboy chuckled. “Mistah Fallon, you don't need to tell that man. He's already down at the end of the bar—with a shotgun!”

Glancing over the room then, Fallon saw at a separate table Riordan, Shelley, and Zeno Yearly. A yard or so away, seated alone, but with his back to a corner, was Devol.

Fallon suddenly felt good. It had been a long time since he had had friends. A wandering man loses much, and nowhere had Fallon sunk roots, nowhere had he remained long enough to know people. Several of these men were family men, with responsibilities to their families, yet they were here.

Coolly, he walked down the steps, and as he reached the bottom, with all eyes on him, Devol got to his feet.

“Your table, Mr. Fallon,” he said quietly, and then under his breath he said, “We're with you—all the way.”

“Thanks,” Fallon said, and drew back a chair.

He had not looked at anyone after that first glance from the head of the stairs. Nor would he. If they wished to talk to him, they could come to him.

Brennan, with a fine flourish, brought a bottle of wine to his table, wiped the table with care, and put down the wine and a glass. He spoke quietly. “The big fellow in the plaid shirt—that's Gleason. His deputy is the man in the black hat, over by the door.”

“And the mayor?”

“Here he comes.…”

Brennan filled the wine glass two-thirds full, then put down the bottle and went back to his bar.

A shadow fell across the table as the man stepped between Fallon and the light.

Yes, Macon Fallon was feeling good. He had evaded the Utes with a whole skin. He had come back to town. He had good, solid men behind him, and a glass of wine before him.

He lifted the glass.

“You're Fallon?” said the man standing there.

“I am Macon Fallon.” He continued to look at the play of light in the wine. “You wished to speak to me? If it is about arrangements to occupy buildings in the town, you may speak to Mr. Brennan, at the bar. He is my agent in such matters.”

“I am afraid you don't understand the situation, Fallon.” The voice was cold. “We don't intend to pay any rent, or any percentage, either. We've moved in, and we plan to stay.”

Fallon leaned back in his chair, tasting the wine. “Excellent vintage,” he said. “Brennan is to be complimented.”

He looked up…it was fortunate that he was a poker player, for he looked right into the eyes of Iron John Buell, swindler, card shark, and gunman. He was all of that and more. He was the original founder of Buell's Bluff.

Macon Fallon, who had played his part in many peculiar scenes in his life, turned not a hair, nor betrayed by even a flicker of an eyelash that he recognized Iron John.

He took his time, holding the advantage he wanted. Iron John was standing as though awaiting his decision, and every moment he stood there was an added advantage for Fallon.

Fallon tasted the wine again, and then carefully he put down his glass. “You were saying?” he asked.

“I said”—Buell's voice was loud—“we don't intend to pay any rent, or any percentage, either. We don't figure you own this town.”

“I see,” Fallon smiled slightly. “I expect you will be moving on, then, you and your friends. Although,” and he spoke loud enough to be heard clearly, “we welcome citizens with trades who are willing to abide by the rules laid down.”

He sipped his wine. “Of course,” he said, “you cannot expect anyone to abide by your trumped-up election. Not more than half a dozen of the men in this room are entitled to vote. The others have not established residence.

“Moreover,” he added, “as in the case of most mining communities, the first settlers draw up the rules of the community, and such rules are accepted in law. I have those rules. Your election was apparently held in ignorance or defiance of them. That is scarcely the right attitude.”

He put down his glass. He felt very cool, very sure of himself. This was Iron John Buell who stood here, a very tough man and a worse crook than he, Macon Fallon, could ever attempt to be.

“It has come to my attention,” he said quietly, but his voice could be heard in every corner of the room, “that you have appointed a marshal, and even a
deputy
marshal. We have had no trouble here, and we expect none…unless it be from Utes or from the Bellows gang.”

Iron John Buell was uneasy. He had expected nothing like this. Macon Fallon was altogether too sure of himself…why?

He was losing face, he was suddenly sure of that. Without thinking, he said, “Marshal…arrest this man!”

Fallon smiled. “Arrest me? For what? For drinking wine? For minding my own affairs?”

Gleason was pleased. There had been altogether too much talk. He stepped around Buell and up to the table.

“You!” he said loudly. “
Get up!
”

He dropped a large hand to Fallon's shoulder, and Macon Fallon, who had never liked to be touched, brushed the hand away, and at the same instant he jerked hard on the toe he had hooked around Gleason's leg.

Off balance, Gleason's arms pawed at the air, and then he fell. He hit the floor hard, and before he could stir a shotgun muzzle was put against his throat by Shelley, who had not risen from the table.

Gleason's flailing arms eased back to the floor and he lay still, his face a sickly yellow, for which Macon Fallon, an understanding man, blamed him not at all. A shotgun against the throat is a very persuasive argument.

Fallon lifted his wine glass again. “One thing I think I should explain,” he said in the same quiet voice, heard by all, “the dam which holds back water for irrigation was built by me, with some help from Mr. Teel. The rights to that water are in my hands. Furthermore, the only source of water for the town is the spring on this property, which belongs to me. I will allow traveling water—once only—to anyone wishing to move on across the desert. To all those who refuse to pay their rent or percentage, I shall allow nothing at all as long as they remain here.”

“You can't get away with this!” Buell protested angrily. “I am the mayor!”

“On the contrary,” Fallon replied, “I am acting mayor. No legal elections have been held by bona fide residents of the town.”

He got to his feet. “Let me say this. I arrived here first. I cleaned up the street, retouched the signs, built the dam, helped to plant the first crops. I assigned the businesses and places of business. I put Red Horse on the map!”

He paused, then looked right at Buell. “If there is anyone present who can claim to have been here before me, and who can justly claim the site was not abandoned, he has only to speak up now.”

Iron John Buell felt a sinking in his stomach. This man Fallon knew him…Fallon knew who he was, what he had done.

Buell felt like a fool. Fallon turned aside. “Joboy, will you fill three canteens for me? And bring them here.”

“What's that for?” Buell demanded.

“For you, Mr. Buell”—Fallon's voice was suddenly harsh—“and for your high-binding marshal and deputy marshal. You get three canteens of water…and this warning:
Get out and stay out!
”

Buell started to bluster. He hoped somebody behind him would say something, but the men at the bar were silent. He glanced around desperately. Gleason lay upon the floor, the shotgun still at his throat, and the man who held the shotgun sat at the table with others who probably also backed Fallon.

Abruptly, he turned and started for the door.

“Buell!”
Fallon's voice rang in the room, and Iron John almost cringed. “You forgot your canteen.”

He turned to the table beside him. “Shelley, will you and Teel escort these men to their horses? And Riordan, would you accompany them, please?”

Buell hesitated. “You sending us out
tonight?
”

Macon Fallon nodded. “Not only tonight. I am sending you out right now…this minute. If you travel at night your water will last longer; and may I say, you'd better waste no time if you expect it to last until you get to a water hole.”