percentage, either. We don’t figure you own this town.”
“I see,” Fallon smiled slightly. “I expect you will be moving on, then, you and
your friends. Although,” and he spoke loud enough to be heard clearly, “we
welcome citizens with trades who are willing to abide by the rules laid down.”
He sipped his wine. “Of course,” he said, “you cannot expect anyone to abide by
your trumped-up election. Not more than half a dozen of the men in this room are
entitled to vote. The others have not established residence.
“Moreover,” he added, “as in the case of most mining communities, the first
settlers draw up the rules of the community, and such rules are accepted in law.
I have those rules. Your election was apparently held in ignorance or defiance
of them. That is scarcely the right attitude.”
He put down his glass. He felt very cool, very sure of himself. This was Iron
John Buell who stood here, a very tough man and a worse crook than he, Macon
Fallon, could ever attempt to be.
“It has come to my attention,” he said quietly, but his voice could be heard in
every corner of the room, “that you have appointed a marshal, and even a deputy
marshal. We have had no trouble here, and we expect none … unless it be from
Utes or from the Bellows gang.”
Iron John Buell was uneasy. He had expected nothing like this. Macon Fallon was
altogether too sure of himself … why? He was losing face, he was suddenly sure
of that. Without thinking, he said, “Marshal … arrest this man!”
Fallon smiled. “Arrest me? For what? For drinking wine? For minding my own
affairs?”
Gleason was pleased. There had been altogether too much talk. He stepped around
Buell and up to the table.
“You!” he said loudly. “Get up!”
He dropped a large hand to Fallon’s shoulder, and Macon Fallon, who had never
liked to be touched, brushed the hand away, and at the same instant he jerked
hard on the toe he had hooked around Gleason’s leg.
Off balance, Gleason’s arms pawed at the air, and then he fell. He hit the floor
hard, and before he could stir a shotgun muzzle was put against his throat by
Shelley, who had not risen from the table.
Gleason’s flailing arms eased back to the floor and he lay still, his face a
sickly yellow, for which Macon Fallon, an understanding man, blamed him not at
all. A shotgun against the throat is a very persuasive argument.
Fallon lifted his wine glass again. “One thing I think I should explain,” he
said in the same quiet voice, heard by all, “the dam which holds back water for
irrigation was built by me, with some help from Mr. Teel. The rights to that
water are in my hands. Furthermore, the only source of water for the town is the
spring on this property, which belongs to me. I will allow traveling water—once
only—to anyone wishing to move on across the desert. To all those who refuse to
pay their rent or percentage, I shall allow nothing at all as long as they
remain here.”
“You can’t get away with this!” Buell protested angrily. “I am the mayor!”
“On the contrary,” Fallon replied, “I am acting mayor. No legal elections have
been held by bona fide residents of the town.”
He got to his feet. “Let me say this. I arrived here first. I cleaned up the
street, retouched the signs, built the dam, helped to plant the first crops. I
assigned the businesses and places of business. I put Red Horse on the map!”
He paused, then looked right at Buell. “If there is anyone present who can claim
to have been here before me, and who can justly claim the site was not
abandoned, he has only to speak up now.”
Iron John Buell felt a sinking in his stomach. This man Fallon knew him …
Fallon knew who he was, what he had done. Buell felt like a fool. Fallon turned
aside. “Joboy, will you fill three canteens for me? And bring them here.”
“What’s that for?” Buell demanded.
“For you, Mr. Buell”—Fallon’s voice was suddenly harsh—”and for your
high-sounding marshal and deputy marshal. You get three canteens of water …
and this warning: Get out and stay out!”
Buell started to bluster. He hoped somebody behind him would say something, but
the men at the bar were silent. He glanced around desperately. Gleason lay upon
the floor, the shotgun still at his throat, and the man who held the shotgun sat
at the table with others who probably also backed Fallon.
Abruptly, he turned and started for the door.
“Buell!” Fallon’s voice rang in the room, and Iron John almost cringed. “You
forgot your canteen.”
He turned to the table beside him. “Shelley, will you and Teel escort these men
to their horses? And Baordan, would you accompany them, please?”
Buell hesitated. “You sending us out tonight?”
Macon Fallon nodded. “Not only tonight. I am sending you out right now … this
minute. If you travel at night your water will last longer; and may I say, you’d
better waste no time if you expect it to last until you get to a water hole.”
When they had gone, Fallon stepped up to the bar. The men who stood there were
mostly good men, he thought, as he glanced along the bar. He said, “John, the
drinks are on me. Serve these gentlemen, will you?”
Then he spoke more quietly. “Gentlemen, I quite understand how exorbitant my
demands must seem, but when the town has been put into some sort of shape, the
amount will be cut—cut quite liberally. We need good men here. Now, if any of
you wish to remain you may talk to Mr. Brennan or, in the morning, to me.”
He turned away and went up the stairs. When he had closed the door behind him he
stood still, soaked with perspiration. His collar felt tight, his coat was hot.
He peeled off the coat and sat down astride a chair, his arms leaning on the
back.
He still could not believe he had won.
Ginia Blane was sewing, but she was also listening. The story of the events at
the Yankee Saloon had swept the town, and her father could not believe it.
Neither could Damon, and they had been talking it over since breakfast.
Her father had been one of the leaders in the move to oust Fallon from control
of the town, and Damon had been with him all the way. For the first time since
she could remember, Al and his father had agreed about something. There had been
others, of course. That her father had expected to be chosen as Mayor she knew,
and she also knew what a shock it had been when the newcomers had deliberately
shunted him aside.
Ginia Blane knew nothing of politics, but she had sense enough to recognize
organization; and when Buell had been nominated the seconding of the motion had
come too quickly—obviously the motion and its seconding had been agreed upon
beforehand.
Buell had then been nominated, a man with no chance for election, and then a
motion had come to move the nominations be closed and that was promptly
seconded. Buell’s election had been a foregone conclusion.
Her father still did not know what had happened to him, but he had been rudely
shocked by the manner in which he had been shunted aside, and he could not
believe they had failed, even then, to cope with Fallon.
Her father could not face Fallon, and she did not blame him for that.
Al Damon was there also, and he moved his leg, now easing the position of the
gun he wore. Al, Ginia decided, was afraid somebody would not realize that he
was wearing a gun. Al was puzzled.
“But what did he do?” he demanded. “You say he just sat there. He must have done
something.”
Needham was telling about it, and he was enjoying it. “I tell you he didn’t do
anything!” He chuckled. “Why, you’d of thought he was the schoolmaster and that
there Buell a young boy brought up for discipline. He made Buell look like a
fool; and then of course, he told him about the water.”
“The water?”
“That he owned it. That he would shut off anybody who didn’t want to pay up. He
did say he’d give traveling water to anybody who wanted to leave.”
Ginia thought … of course, of course, why didn’t I realize that? Without
water, nobody can live, and the water is his.
“A man could slip down at night and get water from back of the dam,” Damon
suggested. “He couldn’t watch all of that.”
“That water?” Mrs. Damon sniffed. “I wouldn’t drink it … or wash with it, if
there was anything else. Cattle walk in it, drink from it—everything.”