Fallon (1963)

by L'amour, Louis

  “Keep them out of the town tonight,” he warned. “The floors are old and there’s wreckage lying about. Too many chances of snakes, or a bad fall.”

  He started to turn his horse, then added, “If young Damon wears that gun out here he’d best grow up to it. When a man packs a gun he’s supposed to handle the responsibility that goes with it.”

  Ginia had started to move away, but she turned back. “I’ll keep them in camp.”

  She looked into his eyes. “You do your part, and I’ll do mine. You’ll see that.”

  After the black horse had drunk again at the reservoir Fallon started back down the road. The stars were out, the night was velvet soft, and there was a faint breeze off the mountains. Around the town the mountains were as bare as mountains of the moon, but farther back there must be trees, for sometimes he almost believed he could smell the pines. However, there was more tangible evidence, for in the wash that ran past the bench and half around it, there were logs, battered trunks of trees carried down by the flash floods. Someday he would find that forest, if forest there was.

  As he rode past the camp he heard Al Damon’s voice. “Aw, whatya expect? Why does it need two of us back there? I wanted some coffee, and Jim, he said never mind.”

  Pausing on the rise from which the town was visible, Fallon looked back. It was swallowed in darkness now, with only the tiny red eye of the campfire winking as people passed between himself and it.

  That flat below the town—if that wash could be dammed up to hold what water came in those flash floods, a man might irrigate enough to make a crop on that bench.

  He chuckled at himself. “Still a farmer at heart, Macon. You’ll never outgrow it.”

  How far back was that farm? Seventeen years? And before that, a hazy recollection of white rail fences and a great white house with columns and a graveled drive. That was the plantation his father had inherited, and on which he was born.

  His father had inherited slaves too, and he did not hold with slavery, so he freed them all. Without slaves the plantation could not be worked, and he soon discovered that in freeing slaves he had not only given up a large part of his wealth but the friendship of his neighbors as well. They were slaveholders, and resented his act. Not one of them would make an offer for his land, and when it was finally sold it brought a tenth of its value.

  His father had known a lot about land, but nothing about the management of money, and the small farm in Missouri had scarcely paid for itself. Macon’s brother Patrick had been killed by night riders when Macon was twelve, but Macon put a bullet through the skull of one of them as they rode off. With young Patrick dead, the heart went out of his father. Locusts got the crop one year, frost the next. And then one night Colonel Patrick Fallon heard a man boast that it was he who had killed young Patrick. The Colonel named him for a skulking murderer and a coward, and died with the man’s bullet in him.

  Three nights later the killer of two Fallons met the third—by that time a gangling boy of fifteen whose hands were born with a deftness beyond that of most men. It showed in his handling of cards, and in his use of guns as well.

  On that dark road Macon Fallon gave the killer his chance and left him dead, gun in hand, bullet through his belly. And then young Macon Fallon had ridden on to Independence and joined a wagon train for Santa Fe.

  Throughout the years that followed, he never lost his interest in land and crops, for it lay deep within his nature. He was Irish first and a farmer second, and both had a love for the land.

  He was thinking over this past of his as he neared the wagon. His horse was walking in sand, and he could hear the voices before he came within sight of the men. He heard more than one rough voice, and then a cry of pain. He drew rein and listened.

  “There’s women’s fixin’s in that wagon, so there’s got to be women about.” It was a surly, drunken voice. “And I’ll take oath there was another wagon here when I first seen you from the bluff yonder.”

  Another man spoke up. “You tell us what we want to know an’ we’ll turn you loose.”

  Fallon walked his horse a few steps further, going up slope until his eyes could see over the slight knoll that hid the wagon.

  Four men stood around the fire, and young Jim Blane had his hands tied behind him. There was a trickle of blood from his lip. “I’m alone,” Jim insisted. “The women’s clothes belong to ma. We’re taking them to her in California. There was another wagon, but it went on. When they get to water they’ll be coming back for me.”

  “Don’t lie to me, boy. You speak up, or we’ll have your boots off and see how much fire your toes will stand.”

  Macon Fallon slid the Winchester from its scabbard. These were Bellows’ men, he knew, and there was no mercy in them. “Get his boots off, Deke. He’ll talk fast enough.”

  Macon Fallon lifted the Winchester, and when he cocked it the sound was loud in the night. Where there had been voices and movement, there was a sudden silence where nothing stirred.

  “Get on your horses, and ride out of here,” he said. His tone was conversational, yet all the more deadly for that.

  The man standing beside Jim Blane started to lift his rifle, and Fallon shot him through the knee. The man staggered, grasped at his knee, and fell. As one man the others scrambled for their horses.

  “You!” Fallon ordered the wounded man. “Get on your horse and get out!”

  “He’s badly hurt!” Jim Blane protested. “He’s bleeding!”

  “Back up over here. I’ll free your hands.”

  The outlaw on the ground was groaning and cursing. He was too concerned with his own wound to notice much, but Fallon had no idea where the others were, and had no intention of appearing in the firelight where he might make a good target.

  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 da
mned 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 land 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 lad, 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 lad … 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 II

  Morning 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 stak
ed, 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.