He was hungry, for he had eaten nothing since breakfast of the previous day,
except for an occasional handful of pine nuts. But he had no food and he
hesitated to fire a shot for fear it would bring the Utes around him. It was not
the first time he had been hungry, and he had long ago learned that grumbling
about what can’t be helped did no good at all. Remounting his horse, he worked
his way farther along the slope. The dome he had seen was off to the northwest
and, as near as he could judge, not more than four miles away.
He was high up … judging by the plant growth around him, he was upwards of ten
thousand feet. He had gone but a short distance toward the dome when the ground
fell steeply away into a magnificent gorge, wild and lonely. His eyes followed
it toward the northwest.
This could be the gorge he had started up when leaving the hollow by the old
Indian trail, and had veered off to the south. If it was that gorge, he was well
on his way home—if he could only get down to the bottom of the canyon. But
nowhere did there seem to be a route by which he could descend. He was trapped
on an island in the sky, not over three miles long and about half a mile wide.
He turned his horse and rode southwest again, back toward the Indians. On the
east this plateau fell steeply away for a thousand feet or more, and then there
was another steep descent, not quite so abrupt, to the bottom of Smoky Valley.
Finally, after hours of searching, he found a way off the top, and went over the
rim, the black horse almost sliding on his haunches. After going down several
hundred feet, accompanied by cascades of sand and gravel, he found a game trail.
After a mile it began a descent to the bottom of the canyon, and he followed it
down.
He had been on the mountain the whole day, and when he reached the bottom it was
dark. Knowing enough of such canyons, he made no attempt to go further, but
found a bench beside the stream and made camp. The bottoms of such canyons were
littered with boulders, fallen logs, debris of all lands, and there were, as
well, sudden falls that might drop off for fifty feet or more. Usually, if one
could find it, there would be an Indian trail or a game trail skirting the edge
of the creek. This would show him the way around any falls there might be.
At noon the following day, Fallon rode up the street of Red Horse, a Red Horse
such as he had never seen. The street was crowded with wagons and with
strangers. Suddenly he saw Blane and started toward him. Blane looked up, saw
him coming, and abruptly turned away and went inside, closing the door behind
him.
Surprised, Fallon rode on up the street A new saloon had opened and above a door
near the saloon was a sign: OFFICE OF THE MAYOR.
Brennan watched him tie his horse and came out on the street. “You played hell,”
he said. “Where’ve you been?”
Briefly, Fallon explained.
“Last night,” Brennan said, “they had an election. It was Blane and Damon behind
it, and Al talking it up all over town. The way I figure, Blane expected to be
mayor … well, he didn’t get to even have a look-in. This newcomer, he had the
votes from the wagon train, and he was elected. Not only that, but he appointed
himself a marshal and a deputy marshal.”
Fallon looked at Brennan unbelievingly. “That’s right,” Brennan said, “a marshal
and a deputy, and if I ever looked on a troublemaker, it’s that Gleason. He’s
big and he’s mean, and he’s been asking around for you.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Fallon,” Brennan said, “go easy. There’s at least sixty men here now who
weren’t here when you left, and those men only know that you’re supposed to own
the town. They don’t accept that—not for a minute, they don’t. The rest of them
accepted it because they figured they owed you something. This bunch don’t
figure they owe you anything.”
Macon Fallon looked down the street, anger stirring within him. This was his
town. He had started it, he had cleaned up the street, he had … But what was
he kicking about? After all, he only wanted to sell a couple of claims and get
out.
“Maybe it will all work out for the best,” he said. “We’ll see.”
Brennan was surprised at Fallon’s words. He was not sure what he had expected,
but it was not this. Fallon went into the saloon and drank coffee until Brennan
brought him a meal. As he sat there he did some serious thinking.
Later, alone in his upstairs apartment, he wrote three letters. He had just
completed them when there was a rap on his door. It was Joboy, Brennan’s Negro
handyman.
“Boss says there’s somebody downstairs to see you all.” Joboy hesitated. “It’s
that mayor fella and the marshal.”
Fallon got to his feet. Carefully, he put on his black coat. But first he
checked his gun. “Mr. Fallon,” he said, looking at himself in the cracked
mirror, “luck!” And then he added, “You may need it.”
As soon as he reached the head of the stairs, he could see he was in for
trouble. The bar was lined with men, all strangers.
“Joboy,” he said over his shoulder to the Negro, “tell Josh Teel I want to see
him.”
Joboy chuckled. “Mistah Fallon, you don’t need to tell that man. He’s already
down at the end of the bar—with a shotgun!”
Glancing over the room then, Fallon saw at a separate table Riordan, Shelley,
and Zeno Yearly. A yard or so away, seated alone, but with his back to a corner,
was Devol.
Fallon suddenly felt good. It had been a long time since he had had friends. A
wandering man loses much, and nowhere had Fallon sunk roots, nowhere had he
remained long enough to know people. Several of these men were family men, with
responsibilities to their families, yet they were here.
Coolly, he walked down the steps, and as he reached the bottom, with all eyes on
him, Devol got to his feet.
“Your table, Mr. Fallon,” he said quietly, and then under his breath he said,
“We’re with you—all the way.”
“Thanks,” Fallon said, and drew back a chair.
He had not looked at anyone after that first glance from the head of the stairs.
Nor would he. If they wished to talk to him, they could come to him.
Brennan, with a fine flourish, brought a bottle of wine to his table, wiped the
table with care, and put down the wine and a glass. He spoke quietly. “The big
fellow in the plaid shirt—that’s Gleason. His deputy is the man in the black
hat, over by the door.”
“And the mayor?”
“Here he comes….”
Brennan filled the wine glass two-thirds full, then put down the bottle and went
back to his bar. A shadow fell across the table as the man stepped between
Fallon and the light.
Yes, Macon Fallon was feeling good. He had evaded the Utes with a whole skin. He
had come back to town. He had good, solid men behind him, and a glass of wine
before him.
He lifted the glass.
“You’re Fallon?” said the man standing there.
“I am Macon Fallon.” He continued to look at the play of light in the wine. “You
wished to speak to me? If it is about arrangements to occupy buildings in the
town, you may speak to Mr. Brennan, at the bar. He is my agent in such matters.”
“I am afraid you don’t understand the situation, Fallon.” The voice was cold.
“We don’t intend to pay any rent, or any percentage, either. We’ve moved in, and
we plan to stay.”
Fallon leaned back in his chair, tasting the wine. “Excellent vintage,” he said.
“Brennan is to be complimented.”
He looked up … it was fortunate that he was a poker player, for he looked
right into the eyes of Iron John Buell, swindler, card shark, and gunman. He was
all of that and more. He was the original founder of Buell’s Bluff.
Macon Fallon, who had played his part in many peculiar scenes in his life,
turned not a hair, nor betrayed by even a flicker of an eyelash that he
recognized Iron John.
He took his time, holding the advantage he wanted. Iron John was standing as
though awaiting his decision, and every moment he stood there was an added
advantage for Fallon.
Fallon tasted the wine again, and then carefully he put down his glass. “You
were saying?” he asked.
“I said”—Buell’s voice was loud—”we don’t intend to pay any rent, or any