“What is it?” Budge demanded. “To a finish?”
“How else?” Fallon said, and moved up to the scratch.
Maloon was a towering big man, his skin as white as a woman’s, but he was muscled like a Hercules. His hands were huge, and the knuckles bore the scars of many battles. He put up his hands and Macon Fallon moved into him, a dancing devil in his eyes, in his heart a sudden wild urge to slaughter, to destroy.
He feinted with his left, then followed through with it and the knuckles of his fist smashed against Maloon’s teeth and jolted the bigger man to his heels.
“So it’s a boxer you are? It’s the kind I like,” Maloon said. “I eat ’em alive!”
Fallon feinted again, swung hard with a right, and the fist that struck him came out of nowhere. It struck the side of his face like a bludgeon, and his feet flipped up and he hit the dust. Dazed, he looked up to see Maloon rushing in.
The big man dove at him and Fallon swung up a leg. His foot caught Maloon in the stomach, and he went on over Fallon to land in a heap. Fallon scrambled to his feet, still dazed, and saw Maloon turn head over heels like an acrobat and come to his feet.
“You’ve the makings of a fighter, lad,” Maloon said. “Too bad I shall have to destroy you!”
He stepped in quickly, hitting hard with both hands. Fallon partially blocked the first punch but caught the second on the jaw, and his head rang. A light seemed to burst and shower him with its fragments. He ducked inside another punch, drove his head against Maloon’s chest, then ripped up with his skull in the vicious “Liverpool kiss” known to rough-and-tumble fighters everywhere.
Maloon’s head was smashed back by the impact of the skull under the chin, and Fallon sprang in, swinging incredibly fast with both fists. The blows landed, rocking Maloon’s big head with their power and staggering him. In close then, Fallon followed through with an elbow smash to the face and stepped back.
As he did so, a stone rolled under his foot and a smashing fist caught him in the mouth. He tasted blood, and a wild, fierce urge to kill came up within him. He tried to butt again, was smashed back by a hamlike fist, drove in swinging, and had both blows blocked.
He tried another, and his right missed and went by, but he brought it around the big man’s head, grabbed his own right wrist with his left hand and had a headlock on Maloon. Instantly he threw his feet in the air and sat down hard, trying to break Maloon’s neck, but the big man was smart and went with him, and they fell together.
On the ground Maloon was a demon. Lightning fast, he swung around and stabbed a stiff thumb for Fallon’s eye. Narrowly missing, the hard nail, deliberately scraped and filed until it had grown to unusual thickness and pointed as a weapon, ripped a gash in the side of Fallon’s face from the corner of his eye almost back to his ear.
Wild with fear for his eyes, Fallon scrambled to get up, but Maloon got astride him and drew his big fist back for a killing blow. Fallon threw up his feet and caught Maloon across the face with his crossed legs, snapping him back.
Torn loose from each other, both men scrambled to their feet, and Fallon ripped into Maloon, swinging with both fists, but Maloon stood his ground, punching hard and fast. The fists of both men were like clubs.
Toe to toe for almost a minute, they slugged wildly, then broke apart as if on command, and circled. Fallon’s cut was bleeding badly; there was a huge welt under the other eye and a cut on his jaw. Maloon had an eye almost closed and a split lip.
They were fighting with animal ferocity, Maloon like a cornered grizzly, Fallon like a mountain lion. Fallon was relentless, always moving, always crowding; Maloon circled warily, quick to counter. Both were shrewd fighters, terrible fighters; both were victors in many a riverside or waterfront brawl.
They broke away from each other and each stepped to the side of the circle. Brennan doused Fallon with water, touched the bloody cut with the towel, dabbing away the blood. “Box him, man!” he whispered hoarsely. “That’s a brute you have there!”
They came together, and Fallon feinted, then stabbed a left to the mouth. He slipped under a left and smashed a right to the ribs. He sidestepped as the big man threw a right, and countered swiftly, jolting Maloon. He started to sidestep again, caught a right, and was knocked down.
He dove away from a kick, came up to his knees, and as Maloon rushed him, swinging another kick, Fallon threw his weight against Maloon’s anchored leg, knocking him down.
Maloon was up first, but Fallon swung his weight on his hands and kicked out behind him with both feet, kicking waist high in a move used by the French la savate fighters.
Both feet caught Maloon coming in and knocked him, sprawling and surprised, into a heap.
Fallon came up fast and swung a kick for Maloon’s chin that missed as the big head ducked, but catching it with a glancing blow that sent Maloon sprawling into the dust again.
But Maloon was up and charging. His big head caught Fallon in the belly, smashing him back, every bit of wind knocked from him. Maloon’s charge carried him on over Fallon, and he scrambled to his feet and turned to find Fallon staggering weakly to his feet.
Maloon rushed in, smashing a tremendous blow to Fallon’s head that started him down. The second blow caught him falling and lost some of its force, but it laid Fallon’s cheek open to the bone. He went down hard on his back and Maloon rushed in for the kill.
Unable to get up, Fallon rolled to left and right, trying desperately to avoid the kicks that might, any one of them, kill him or break his skull.
Staggering from the force of a kick, Maloon was carried on by him, and Fallon managed to get up. His lungs gasped for breath, every inhalation like a knife thrust into his chest. His head rang from the blows he had taken; he was punch-drunk with the fight. He had forgotten where he was or what was the issue at stake; he only knew that he must kill or be killed.
He waited, hands hanging, and Spike Maloon came to him. The big man had been shocked by the skill of Fallon, and by the force of the blows he had taken, but now he was sure. He had his man.
He was not only a big man, he was tremendously strong. Now he struck a light blow to the face, testing Fallon’s responses. He drew no return, but he was wary. He feinted a left, and then as Fallon struck out, he brushed the blow aside and knocked him down with his right. But Fallon, surprisingly, got up.
Spike Maloon was suddenly worried. He had struck with his hardest punches, and he had knocked Fallon down…time and again. But he always got up.
Now he must put him down and keep him down. This time he must put him on the ground, then jump on him and kick the life out of him, and quickly.
The watchers, hoarse from shouting, were silent now, shocked by the ferocity of the battle they watched. It was like two primeval men fighting far away in the past…like two utterly savage cavemen.
Maloon moved in. He had fought hard, but he had his second wind, and Fallon was finished. He struck out with a left…it landed. He struck again…it landed. He struck again…and suddenly his left arm was seized and he was thrown over Fallon’s back with a flying mare. He hit the ground with a thud and Fallon fell upon him, a knee driving into his solar plexus as Fallon came down, then that same knee smashing up to hit his chin.
A terrible light burst in Maloon’s skull. He fought himself free, and got up. His jaw was broken, smashed at the hinges and hanging free.
His hands…he had to get Fallon in his hands. Curling a bulky arm around his jaw, he charged to get close, swinging with his right fist.
Fallon brought up hard against the hitch rail and Maloon’s big hand grasped his windpipe. Fallon tried to get at Maloon’s eyes but the big man ducked his head low.
Lifting a boot, Fallon smashed down with the side of the boot against Maloon’s shinbone, the heel driving down hard on Maloon’s foot. But the bigger man clung grimly to his grip on the throat.
Fallon smas
hed up hard against Maloon’s elbow, the elbow of the arm that was gripping his throat, and at the same time he reached over with his right hand and dug his fingers into the palm of the gripping hand. Retaining his hold, he ripped the hand free from his throat and, turning quickly, gripping the hand and pushing down on the elbow, he sent Maloon stumbling, bent over and head down. He fell, and lay still, face down in the dust.
Macon Fallon staggered toward him, then his knees folded and he fell. He tried to get up, and he fell again, and the last sound he heard was a rifle shot.
A rifle shot…and then another.
He fought his way out of a fog of unconsciousness and strained to get up. A gentle hand touched his shoulder and a voice whispered, “Lie still.”
He relaxed slowly, trying to figure out where he was. It was dark, with strange faint streaks of light off to one side.
The voice…that had been Ginia. She was here with him.
Then he remembered the fight…but what happened after that? There had been a shot—after that he remembered nothing.
“Ginia?”
“Ssh!”
He whispered. “Where are we? What happened?”
“We were attacked…a lot of men on horseback. All of a sudden, just as your fight ended, they just came down out of nowhere, and there was a lot of shooting.” She stopped, listening. Then she added, “We’re under the hotel.”
There was, he recalled, a sort of hollow under the back of the hotel because it was built at a spot where the ground fell away behind it. The back of the hotel was actually resting on an eight-foot stone foundation.
Those strange streaks of light, he realized suddenly, could only be sunlight coming through the cracks in the boardwalk. It was alongside the boardwalk that he had fallen. As she could not have carried him, she must have come in through the back somehow and dragged him under the walk, and then down here.
“They were shooting and running their horses,” she explained when he asked about it. “I was afraid you’d be killed.” She paused a moment. “They are looking for you. Al Damon is with them.”
“I thought as much.” He lay quiet, trying to judge his own condition. His face felt stiff and sore, and he could move his jaw only with difficulty. One eye, he discovered, was swollen almost shut. He tried to work his fingers, but they, too, were stiff and sore.
“How long has it been?”
“An hour…maybe a little more.”
“I’ve got to get a gun.”
He was lying on his back and he turned over slowly and pushed himself to a sitting position. He felt sore all over. He could hear men moving about on the floor above, and they must be Bellows men, or there would be no reason to remain quiet.
He leaned close to Ginia. “Do you know what’s happening now?”
“When they rode in,” she said, “I know that somebody shot at them, because as they came around the corner we heard the shot and a man fell.
“Everybody scattered for shelter. They killed Mr. Hamilton, I think. You and Mr. Maloon were left lying there…I think they believed you had been killed. So I came around behind, got in here, and pulled you back under the walk. Then I spilled water from the trough over the ground where you had been dragged.
“They are looking for you now. I can hear what they say sometimes.”
He sank back on the cool earth and looked up into the darkness that was the underside of the floor above. He could hear sporadic shooting, which meant the surprise had not been complete. Joshua Teel and some of those in his small band of defenders had been on the alert.
He must have a gun, that first of all. And then in some way he must get the defenders together and drive Bellows and his outfit from the town. At the same time, he must not risk Ginia’s safety. But first of all, they must leave this place.
He sat up again, grasping her arm. There was an old door, he remembered, that opened at the back. It opened into a gully grown high with wiry brush and weeds, but there were paths through those weeds.
He got up and moved carefully in the darkness. He found the door, but there he hesitated. Did the hinges creak? No matter, he’d have to try it. He opened the door the merest crack and a bright glare of sunlight entered. It was a dozen feet to the brush. He tried to recall how many rear windows there were…surely they would be watched.
They stepped outside—then three running strides and they were in the brush, unseen, he hoped.
Beyond the gully the mountainside rose up. He must follow the gully, which grew more shallow farther on, and get into the Yankee Saloon if possible.
Somewhere a gun barked…two guns responded.
Crouched in the gully, they listened. The sun was blistering hot, the rocks too hot to touch. Lifting his head slowly, he peered out. Between two buildings he could see a section of the street. A dead horse lay there, and a man sprawled near the horse, a man with a bald head…a stranger.
Fallon looked up at the windows. At one of them he saw a gun barrel…was it friendly, or otherwise? He could not risk finding out.
His head ached with a dull, heavy throb, aggravated by the heat. He looked down at his hands, swollen out of shape, dark with bruises. He would have trouble with a pistol now, although he could manage it. A rifle…he wanted his Winchester.
He heard more shots, tried to locate their origin. Suddenly, he heard a faint creak of leather, and his breath caught. Then, carefully, he eased back to the deeper brush where Ginia waited.
Had he made any sound? He did not think so.
Under the baking sun he could smell the dust and the drying brush. He waited, motionless. Then he heard the footstep again, and suddenly the man came into view, not more than ten feet away.
He was a big bearded man, inclined to fatness around the midsection, and he carried a rifle and wore a belt gun. His eyes were small and mean—cruel eyes. It was obvious that he was hunting them…he had seen or heard something.
He slowly surveyed the brush. Fallon put his left hand back to touch Ginia, a warning. She was gone!
His hand closed on a jagged chunk of rock, and he started to lift it. As he did so, Ginia suddenly stood up, a dozen feet away, directly in front of the man with the rifle.
“Were you looking for me?” she said.
The man’s rifle had started to come up, but at her words he lowered it. He moved toward her, and Fallon took three short, running steps and hit him in a long dive. Ginia had given Fallon his chance, and he had taken it.
His shoulder smashed into the man, hitting him just below the waist and lifting him almost bodily from the ground. The man fell sprawling, losing his grip on his rifle. Ginia caught it up and swung it by the barrel, a neat, precise swing that was like chopping cotton with a hoe. The solid tunk of the rifle butt against the man’s skull was a welcome sound.
Swiftly, Fallon stripped the gun belt and holster from the man’s waist, then took the rifle from Ginia.
Flattened against the side of the building, he glanced at her. “I thought you disapproved of violence?” he said softly.
Her chin lifted. “There are times,” she said.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “You think fast.”
He checked the rifle. It was a .44 Henry, and the belt ammunition was .44 calibre.
Keeping close to the buildings, they ran toward the upper end of town. Fallon had a hunch that the defense would center there; he knew the best place to defend, the place from which the town could most easily be covered lay at the mining claim he had sold to Pollock. Next to that, the best place was the Yankee Saloon.
Brennan would at all costs head for there, and it was likely others would also, although the need to protect their families must of necessity scatter them.
Suddenly a shot nipped the wall near him, then another. Ducking between the buildings, Fallon saw a man in a dirty red shirt wheel to face him. As the ma
n turned, a shot from somewhere laid a gash along the side of his neck. Fallon fired his Henry from the hip, and the bullet knocked the man sprawling back into the street, where another bullet finished the job.
“That came from the blacksmith shop,” he said quietly.
They waited there between the buildings, and Fallon cursed himself for a fool. He should never have bothered with Spike Maloon, or allowed himself to be baited into a fight to the finish with him. He could have been miles from town, instead of stuck here in a defenseless position with a girl to take care of. Unless, he reflected, remembering the events of the last hour, it was she who took care of him.
The shooting ceased, and there was quiet.
Fallon glanced at the shadow of the building beside which he stood…the afternoon was well advanced, and with night the smaller numbers of the defenders, with their wives, children, and property to defend, would have small chance. Whatever was to be done must be done now. Undoubtedly Bellows was delaying for just that reason.
Ginia suddenly stood up. “Mr. Fallon, we need to know where our friends are, don’t we?”
“That’s it,” he agreed. Then he indicated the shadow of the building. “It grows late. If they can hold us off until dark, we’ll not have much of a chance. If I could get to Teel and the others—Shelley, Riordan, Devol, and Yearly—I think we could run them out.”
“Where do you think they are?”
He thought for a moment. “I’m guessing that your pa made it back to the blacksmith shop…Jim will be with your ma and the others, right behind the shop. They will be able to help each other that way.
“Our headquarters was the Yankee, and Brennan would try to get back there, but he may not have made it. The others—unless they went to their families—would be with Brennan. So I’ve got to get to the Yankee Saloon. More than that, wherever they are, they’ve got to know what I’m planning. If they aren’t in the Yankee, they’ll be at my old claim at the end of the street…we worked out an agreement.”
She faced him. “I will find out for you.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
Fallon (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 13
