Novel 1963 - Fallon (v5.0) (4 page)

Jim Blane backed into the darkness and Fallon cut the ropes loose with his bowie knife.

“Now disarm that man and get him out of here.”

“The man's hurt!” Jim said again.

“He asked for it. You get him out of here. I'll stay out of the light. They might still be around.”

When the outlaw was gone, Jim walked back to the fire, carrying the rifle and gun belt. His face was pale with anger. “That was the most cold-blooded thing I ever saw!” he said. “As far as I'm concerned, I want nothing more to do with you!”

Fallon listened into the night with careful attention.

“Stay out of the light,” he said, and then he added, “When I came up they were fixing to burn your feet. You seem to have forgotten that.”

From the silence that followed it was obvious that in his anger Jim really had forgotten. “They would never have done it,” he said after a while. “They were trying to scare me.”

“What do you suppose would happen to your ma and your sister if they got hold of them? That was what they wanted to know, wasn't it?”

Jim Blane did not speak. He was still angry, and he did not believe men would do such things, even though these men had been drinking and talked rough.

Fallon explained about the Bellows outfit. They had been riders with Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson, and had come west in a body. Disguised as Indians, they had attacked several wagon trains and a few outlying settlements.

Yet even as he spoke, he knew he probably was wasting his time. To those who have lived a sheltered life, exposed to no danger or brutality, only the actual sight of something of the kind will convince. Each person views the world in the light of his own experience.

“They found an old miner,” Fallon went on, “who was supposed to have some hidden gold. They tortured him for hours until he died, and a friend of mine who found the body was sick after seeing it.”

“I can't believe that.”

“Your choice.” Fallon leaned back against a boulder and put his Winchester across his lap. “Blane, I'm going to tell you something once, and never again. This is a different country than you're used to, so I'll let that comment ride, because you're so damned ignorant.”

Blane turned sharply, but Fallon continued. “You imply out here that a man is a liar, and you'd better be ready to draw a gun. We don't stand for that kind of loose-mouthed talk.”

“I think—”

“I don't give a damn what you think.”

Fallon got up and walked to his horse. Stripping off the saddle and bridle, he put on a hackamore and picket-rope, then he rubbed the exhausted animal down with handsful of grass, talking to it meanwhile. The horse was worth a dozen men as a sentinel, for even an exhausted mustang, bred in the wild, would sense anything that came close.

When Fallon walked back to where Jim Blane was, he saw the boy was asleep. He looked down at him thoughtfully. A husky, nice-looking kid, and he would learn. They all had to learn, only some of them didn't last long enough.

Awakening with the first gray light, Fallon went to the wagon and found the coffee. When young Jim opened his eyes the coffee was ready, and so was some bacon.

“Eat up,” Fallon advised. “They'll be coming soon.”

“Pa won't be here for hours. He won't start until it's light.”

“He's on his way now. He should be here in about twenty minutes.”

Jim went to the water barrel and splashed water on his face and hair. He combed his hair and came back to the fire.

The sky was cloudless, the dry lake on whose edge the wagon stood was a blank waste of grayish white, touched only here and there along the edges with gray brush, heavily coated with dust. In the morning light the mountains looked dark and somber.

Macon Fallon looked sourly at the hills. His every instinct told him to get away from here, to get away as quickly as possible. Whatever else the Bellows outfit knew, they must not be allowed to know how weak the party was. For Bellows and his men thrived on weakness.

Jim Blane filled his cup and looked a challenge at Fallon, who ignored him.

“I find that idea ridiculous,” Jim said, “shooting a man simply because he says he doesn't believe you.”

“You'll be surprised how little anybody will care what you think. When you live in a country you conform to the customs of that country or you get out. You will discover that most customs originate in response to a need, and there are good and sufficient reasons for that attitude out here.”

As he talked he saddled the black horse, his eyes busy with the trail and the ridges around; he looked at the dim track over which the oxen would be coming. It was light enough to see for some distance, and he had long ago seen the faint plume of dust caused by the moving oxen.

“In this country,” he added, “a man cannot exist if he is known to be either a coward or a liar.

“Business is done solely on a man's word. Thousands of head of cattle are paid for simply on the seller's statement that there are that many. No signatures, no legal documents, nothing beyond the word of the seller. But when those cattle are finally counted, the count had better be right.

“If a man's word is no good, nobody will do business with him. If he has the reputation of being unreliable he will be treated with contempt or ignored.

“Moreover, few activities in this country are free of danger, and when a man goes into danger he wants to be sure that those who are with him will stand with him through whatever comes. Therefore no man will have anything to do with a known coward.

“If a man starts to drive cattle a thousand miles, more or less, through Indian country, he can expect shooting trouble. He can expect a dozen other occasions to arise, sometimes so many as that in one day, where nerve is required, and he cannot afford to be teamed with a coward.

“Give a man the name of being either a coward or a liar, and he will be lucky to get a job swamping in a saloon.”

Fallon stepped into the saddle. “And that is why either of those words, or any implication of them, is a deadly insult and is treated as such.

“You'll find when trouble comes out here you don't run for the law—you settle it yourself, and you're expected to. As a matter of fact, there's rarely anybody to run to for help.

“I think you're a nice kid, so if I were you I'd keep my mouth shut until you find out how things are done. If you do that, you may live long enough to like the country.

“Now keep your rifle handy. You may think those men won't kill. I know they not only will, but they often have, and we haven't seen the last of them. What you want to keep in mind is that they were looking for women, and women in this case means your mother, your sister, and the Damon women.”

He did not wait for a reply, and he wanted none. He had taken more time and said more than he usually did and he couldn't imagine why, except—well, Jim Blane did look like a nice kid…unlike that Al Damon.

He had ridden only a few minutes when he came up to the oxen. They were coming along slowly, as was their nature, but Blane and Damon were with them, and they were armed.

Fallon reined in and watched them approach the wagon. That Bellows man had mentioned watching from a bluff, and undoubtedly somebody watched now. The question was, how long would they wait?

When he put out his sign he would be asking for trouble. And he must face it alone.

Chapter 2

M
ORNING CAME TO Red Horse with lemon light in the eastern sky, throwing into sharp relief the old weather-beaten buildings, aged by wind and sun; the warped doors, the faded and scarcely legible signs that overhung the street.

The town was still, the hollow rooms without sound. Far up the street, beyond where the reservoir lay, a road runner raced into view, teetered briefly on top of a boulder, then vanished from sight.

Macon Fallon sat on his black horse and looked up the street.

Could he do it? Dared he even try? Could he lift this town from the sleep of years and make it suddenly take on a bloom of activity? The first arrival might expose the whole shoddy affair, for any chance comer might be one of those who had known Buell's Bluff in its brief heyday.

What he planned was a swindle, and up to now it had not been in him to swindle anyone. Yet he had to keep in mind that what he needed was a stake, enough money to establish himself somewhere, to locate and stock a ranch, to buy land.

He was tired, suddenly very tired, of playing cards in cheap, dirty saloons and listening to the drunken babble of men who should know better. This town was his chance, his one big chance.

Why worry about what would happen to whoever bought his gold claims? They would be adult, in possession of as many senses as he was. They could look around. They would not be forced to buy.

What difference could it make to the Blanes, the Damons, and their like—the people he would use for window-dressing for his scheme? Had he not stopped them, some of them would have died out there on the Sink where others had died before them. Here at least, they had a chance. Or did they?

He studied the town with care. First, he must give to this shabby, deserted town an appearance of prosperity. He must open the Yankee Saloon for business. He must open Deming's Emporium. Blane, he had learned, had once been a blacksmith, and he might be talked into returning to his former trade.

He would clean the brush out of the street, set up a new hitching rail, clean the stone reservoir, repaint the signs along the street. He could trim up some of the trees, and might even transplant some desert flowers to give the town a more homey touch.

The site was excellent, even picturesque. Nature had artfully arranged the trees, and he knew just what needed to be done to give the town the look he wanted.

The signs were almost erased by wind, rain, and blown sand, but at the edge of the dry lake he had seen some iodine weed growing—it was sometimes called inkweed. From this the Indians made a black dye for decorating pottery and blankets, and he could use it on the signs.

He knew the claims people were likely to buy, those unknown for whom he baited his trap. He knew which claims had the best outward indications, and it was these he would stake for himself. Once staked, he would do a bit of work on each so the dumps would have a fresh look to them; and then, once he had sold those claims, he would be down the trail as fast as his horse could carry him.

Damon had kept store before this, and he had brought with him a small stock of goods: he had a few dozen bolts of cloth, clothing of the rougher sort, tools, nails, scissors, needles, thread, and such odds and ends. No doubt the Blanes could find something they could add to the stock.

The food supplies in the wagons would last a couple of weeks if pieced out with meat; after that they must secure supplies, perhaps by barter, from travelers.

He knew that there used to be deer and Big Horn sheep in the mountains, and with luck he could bring in some game. He wanted to look back up that wash, anyway.

Turning in his saddle, he looked again at the flat below the town. In his mind's eye he saw it waving with corn, with planted crops. There was good grazing there now, of the rougher sort, but with water that flat would be transformed. Tomorrow he would ride down and choose a spot for a dam.

Now he rode up to the Yankee Saloon and dismounted, trailing his bridle reins. He went inside for a quick, daylight survey of the premises. Then he took the black horse around back where the trickle from the reservoir watered a small patch of grass. He picketed the horse there and went back inside.

In the mop closet he found a broom and, opening the two doors and the one window that could be opened, he swept out the place. When he had finished sweeping he built a fire out back and put water on to boil in a big black kettle.

Little but personal possessions had been taken away. It was as if the few inhabitants had not wanted anything to hamper their departure. Travel across the Sink was a trial in any case, and nobody wanted a heavy load. It was simpler to leave everything behind.

Macon Fallon glanced at himself in the mirror with a wry expression. He had always told himself work was for fools, and here he was, taking the biggest job he had ever encountered and, surprisingly enough, he was enjoying it.

“When a man gets to enjoying hard work,” he said to himself, “he ought to shoot himself.” But he did not feel that way.

The sound of footsteps made him turn his head, and he saw Ginia Blane and Ruth Damon. He straightened up from his work.

“You may tell your father the store is across the street, Miss Damon. Your father can clean it up and open with whatever he has to put on the shelves.”

He glanced at Ginia, although he had hoped it would not be necessary. She made him uncomfortable. “If your father wishes to repair that wheel he will find tools in the blacksmith shop. I hope he will see fit to go into business there.”

“What are you going to do?” Ginia asked, too politely. “Shoot people?”

“Your brother doesn't approve of me, Miss Blane, and neither do you. How fortunate for me that it does not matter. However,” he added, “no matter what your brother believes, had I not come along he would now have two badly burned feet.”

Ginia Blane had heard chiefly the remark that it did not matter what she thought, and she had not expected that. Like most very pretty girls, she was accustomed to men making an effort to please her. Most of the boys or men she had known would have been embarrassed by her sarcasm, and even had they been ready with a sharp reply, they would not have made it. To be brushed aside so easily irritated her.

“I'm sure,” she said stiffly, “that nothing you do will have the slightest interest for me.”

“Good!” he said cheefully. “Now, unless you want to become dishwasher in a saloon, I suggest you run along and play.”

Her mouth opened, but the words would not come; so turning sharply on her heel, she led the way across the street.