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 Fallbn. 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 coffeepot 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 Bren-nan 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.
Now Brennan spoke. “Nobody but a tin-horn would file a notch on his gun!” he
said. “That’s a lad’s trick!”
“Like hell!” Al said. “Tandy Herren does it! He’s got sixteen notches on his
gun!”
Brennan tasted his coffee. It was too weak. He put the cup down and picked up
his cigar. Suddenly, he was worried. He glanced quickly at Al, then away. How
much of a fool was Al Damon?
“I doubt it,” he said. “Tandy’s a good hand with a gun, all right, but he’d
never carve notches on his gun.”
“A lot you know!” Al Damon scoffed. “I seen it!” Instantly, he knew he had said
too much. He hastily gulped the rest of his coffee. “Got to see pa!” he said,
and went out.
Sunlight was bright in the street, and for a moment he stood still, thinking of
what he had said. Brennan would likely think he had seen Tandy Herren coming
west. After all, what did Brennan know about where he had been or who he had
seen?
He walked down the street, knowing he must make peace with his father, but
reluctant to begin it. He would see his mother first. And then he would have to
study out a way to get hold of a horse.
Macon Fallon rode slowly along the rim of the wash. He was still tired, but the
warm sunlight felt good, and the air was fresh and clean. Moreover, he had
water. A lot had gone over the dam, of course, but after the flash flood had
ended, he still had a lot of water backed up in the wash.
It lapped within a few inches of the top of the dam and extended back up the
wash for several hundred yards. The sun would evaporate a good bit of it, but
even so, this water, with what the rain had done, would get their crops started.
Several acres of corn had been planted, and a few rows of onions, potatoes,
carrots, and such-like.
Turning in the saddle, he looked up toward the town. It was fresh and attractive
in the morning sunlight, and certainly the setting was splendid. The mountains
towered above and behind the town, giving the place an almost picture-book
setting. With some management, it could become a most attractive place.
Not that it mattered in the long run. All he wanted was one good prospect on
whom he could unload the claims. The passing of time, however, worried him, for
with each succeeding day the chances of someone showing up who knew the town as
Buell’s Bluff became greater. Or the chances of someone coming to town from
Seven Pines.
Riding along the bank of the wash had brought him close to the grazing cattle.
He turned toward the mountains to avoid coming close to Jim Blane, but the boy