against the cliffs. The black was running fine, and the way was clear. But they
were pulling up on him now, cutting across to head him off. He glanced to right
and left. The nearest ones were close … too close.
The canyon opened before him, then closed to scarcely twenty yards wide. There
were boulders and broken slabs of rock on the left, and Fallon eased the racing
horse.
“We’ll make our stand, boy,” he said, and wheeled the horse into the shelter of
the boulders and hit the ground running.
The nearest Indian was no more than fifty feet behind and raced on past. Macon
Fallon swung with his rifle and shot into the horse that carried the second
Indian. Then, pivoting on his right heel, he fired at the Indian that had gone
on past and was now turning.
He jacked a shell into the chamber and waited.
It was cool here in the shadow of the giant cliffs. Only a streamer of sky
showed above him. The sand was still hard-packed from the swift waters that had
so recently run over it. It would be night soon.
He glanced back again—the Indian pony stood off to one side. The Ute lay
sprawled, the sand darkened and enriched by his blood.
Out in front the valley was empty; only the long grass stirred in the wind.
Chapter IV
That was the night the big train came to Red Horse.
They came in the late afternoon, forty-two wagons, streaming down the long hill,
rumbling across the bridge. Brennan heard them coming, and looked out his window
and down the street toward the bridge. The biggest wagon train he had ever seen,
and Macon Fallon nowhere around.
He called his Negro from the still. “Leave that for now,” he said urgently. “Go
get Josh Teel.”
Al Damon was in the store. “All right … pay him,” he told his father. “I
figure there should be an election. I figure we should vote, get us a marshal
with a badge, and we should have us a mayor.”
“The boy’s right,” Blane said. “I don’t hold with violence, and Fallon has shown
himself a violent man. Sure, he saved our stock, but that gives him no right to
hold us up for thirty per cent of what we make.”
“We’d better talk to the others. Well call a meeting. There’s Hamilton, Budge,
Teel—”
“You can count him out. He’ll stand with Fallon.”
The wagons came up the street, the big white-topped wagons, drawn by great teams
of bulls, the heavy wagons with sunbonneted women and roughly dressed men, men
in galluses and boots, men with rifles and men with belt guns, men ready to
trade, and some looking to settle. They flooded into the stores, and for the
time being all thought of Fallon was dropped.
Joshua Teel came in and had a drink with Brennan. He had a cold beer, for
Brennan had found an ice cave in the lava flow at the upper end of town.
“Ain’t seen him,” Teel said. “He cut out right after sunup to have a look at the
water. Young Blane said he stopped by the herd, then cut up into the hills.”
Brennan was worried.
He watched the wagons roll up the street. He watched the men get down, and some
of them walked up to the saloon. He served them drinks and listened, and they
asked about the prospects.
“Have to see Fallon,” Brennan said. “It’s his town.”
A big, square-faced man looked up belligerently. “I never heard of no man who
could run the town I’m in,” he said. “Who is this Fallon?”
“He’s a good man,” Brennan replied. “He started the town.”
“All right, he started it. So where is he?”
“He’ll be around.”
Al Damon had come in. He still carried a few of the silver dollars. He put one
of them on the bar and said, “Fallon ain’t gonna run this town forever. We’re
goin’ to have an election. Well vote us a marshal and a mayor.”
Brennan ignored him, but he felt a little shock of doubt. If an election was
called, there was no question of it being called to help Fallon in any way. It
could only be called to be rid of him.
He worked swiftly and silently, talking little, and then only to reply to
questions, but he was aware that Al Damon was doing some talking, and none of it
friendly to Fallon. With the rush of business, he stayed open until ten, and the
saloon was orderly. Only the big man, whose name was Gleason, showed any
inclination to trouble.
The wagon train had started out from Ft. Leavenworth to come to the Nevada and
California mines. They would rest and recuperate here for two or three days,
then go on west.
Wagon trains were few these days, for the time of the gold rush was long past.
Nowadays the wagon trains were likely to be freighters, carrying cargo to the
mines or ore from them. In this train there should be a number of men or
families who might be useful to Red Horse.
Fallon should be here. It had always been Fallon who sorted the men out, who
looked for strong, competent men with trades, men who wanted to do something and
create something. There was no one to do that now. And it was unlike Fallon to
be gone.
Teel dropped in just before closing. He was gloomy. “I don’t like it, John.
There’s a lot of talk around about electing a mayor and appointing a marshal. Al
Damon’s doing most of the talking, but young Jim Blane is, too.”
“Where is Fallon?” Brennan said anxiously. “If ever, he should be here now.”
Half an hour before closing time Luther Semple rode slowly into Red Horse. From
a nearby bluff he had watched the wagon train and had decided that now, among
all this crowd of strangers, he would have a good chance to take stock of the
town.
The wagon train was such a big one that attacking the town while it was there
was simply out of the question. There must be a hundred men, he thought, or
close to it, with that train. Until now, they had been trusting to the reports
of Al Damon, but Semple did not place any confidence in his reports. It was
obvious that Al did not like Fallon, and he might have underestimated him.
Lute Semple was not particularly bright, but he had an animal instinct for
danger and he had been one of those at the wagon the night Fallon rode up on
them. He had not seen him3 but he had heard that voice.
Since then, Al had described Fallon so it would be hard to miss him. Lute Semple
wanted to see Fallon, to estimate the danger involved; for Lute had survived a
good deal longer than many of his comrades because he had no desire to make a
reputation, nor any urge to face a dangerous man in any kind of a gun battle.
Semple rode into Red Horse unnoticed in the confusion following the arrival of
the wagon train, almost half of which was made up of freight wagons. The
teamsters were well-armed and competent-looking men. There were about thirty of
them, tough men and veterans of many an Indian fight.
Semple tied his horse a few doors down from the Yankee Saloon, then after a
careful look around, he entered the saloon and ordered a drink.
The first person he recognized was John Brennan himself, and he remembered him
from both Abilene and Corinne. Taking his drink, Lute Semple found his way to a
table in the corner and sat down.
Had Brennan recognized him? He thought not. In any event, Brennan would have no
reason to suspect him of anything, for Brennan had never, so far as Semple was
aware, known anything about him.
A lot of money was being spent. Semple could see the teamsters crowding to the
bar, and the whiskey they bought was surprisingly good. Fallon did not seem to
be anywhere around, and that worried him. If he was not here, where was he?
Semple was sitting at the table when Joshua Teel entered. He had never seen Teel
before, but he recognized the type. Oddly enough, Teel had been born in a log
cabin not three-quarters of a mile from Semple’s home.
After he finished his whiskey, Semple got up and left quietly. John Brennan,
recorking a bottle, turned his eyes to watch him go. Luther Semple had not
counted on Brennan’s good memory, or his interest in his customers.
“Teel,” Brennan said, leaning on the bar, “you ever hear of Luther Semple?”
“Semple? There were some Semples back home. The ones I knew of were a no-good
outfit … though probably were others who were good folks…. Why?”
“Lute Semple just walked out of here, and I’d make a small bet he’s with