clothing, straightened his tie, pulled his horse’s head up, and straightened up
himself. He would approach them as a man of means, a man of spirit, a man who
could take command. Once people felt pity for a man, he would never be able to
have the upper hand. The thing to do was take command and keep them moving.
Macon Fallon was alive to opportunity, and opportunity was what he needed now.
Every bit of his cash except for a few dollars had been left behind in Seven
Pines. He needed not only a stake before going on, but a chance for his horse
and himself to recover strength.
And these were the people who would provide it. Did not the good Lord send the
lambs to be sheared? Macon Fallon was a cynic, but every cynic is a
sentimentalist under the skin, and therein lay the chink in Fallon’s armor of
larceny. For basically, no matter how much he might consider himself otherwise,
Macon Fallon was a gentleman in the best sense of the word.
Aware of his deficiency, he avoided every contact that might betray him into
thoughtfulness, gallantry, or consideration. He kept to himself, and when
necessity demanded that he deal harshly, he ruthlessly dealt so with those who
were themselves so inclined.
People, he told himself, were suckers. The fact that on several occasions he had
proved to be one himself only served to illustrate the point. Two assets
belonged to Fallon besides a glib tongue and a gift for handling the
pasteboards. One was a keen sense of observation; the other, an excellent memory
and a mind filled to overflowing with an enormous variety of usually useless
information.
Long ago he had discovered that while all people look, there are few who
actually see. Rarely did people look with intelligence, or recognize what they
were seeing. If they walked in the forest they saw only trees; or at best,
merely certain varieties of trees.
But Macon Fallon saw much more. He saw where a bear had stood on his hind legs
and had left his mark to other bears as high as he could reach upon the trunk;
he saw where a deer had passed, and how long since; where blight had touched a
tree, or where lightning had scarred one long ago. He saw these things, and
much, much more.
So, when he glimpsed the wagons his mind was not so gripped by the sight of them
that he failed to see lying in the brush, almost obliterated by the weather, a
faded sign: BUELL’S BLUFF.
Buell’s Bluff?
Startled, he drew up and looked again and immediately the sign, the people of
the wagons, and his own fertile imagination became the base upon which he began
to construct a plan. His thoughts leaped ahead. If the plan worked he could, in
a few weeks, at most in a few months, ride into California completely solvent.
He drew himself still straighter in the saddle, cocked his hat at a still
jauntier angle, and attempted to look as spruce as he did not feel. The lambs
awaited, and he held the shears. A question remained: did the lambs have fleece?
His lethargy was gone, his weariness fell away, even the heat and his own
parched throat and cracked lips were forgotten; for here was opportunity, and no
man had ever needed one more.
Even as he advanced, he could not but wonder if he did not look like a dusty Don
Quixote … if so, the black horse was, at least, no Rosinante. Undoubtedly he
was in worse shape than they, but he had probably had more experience with
adversity than they could possibly have had.
There were two men, two women of mature years, a boy of sixteen, two young
girls, and three smaller children. There was also a young man of perhaps
nineteen.
Sweeping off his hat as only he knew how, Fallon asked, “May I be of service?”
“Wheel broke.” The speaker was a man of about forty-five, with sandy hair, a
well-shaped head, and a strong face. “We got the know-how, but we ain’t got the
tools.”
Macon Fallon stepped carefully from the saddle, trying not to stagger. With that
bulging watersack hanging from the side of the wagon, with that smell of bacon
frying, absolutely nothing was going to get him away from here. Yet he must seem
prosperous; anything else at this time would prove fatal to his plan.
“You are going to the mines?”
The worry in the sandy-haired man’s face was apparent. “Small chance unless we
leave our wagons and start off afoot.” He indicated the shimmering wasteland.
“We’re kind of scared to tackle that, with the womenfolks, and all.”
Salvation lay here for Fallon, not only for the moment, but for the future as
well, if he could play these people in the right way. His throat was raw with
the need for water, and the smell of food made his stomach growl with
impatience.
“Rightly so.” He gestured toward the barren country around them. “A man without
a horse out there, and without water … he might keep going two days if he was
strong to begin with.”
Fallon’s glance fell on one of the girls … quickly he averted his eyes. This
was no time for sentiment. These were good people, the sort he usually avoided,
but he could not think of that now. In any event, it was not them he planned to
victimize. They would be merely the window dressing. And anyway, what else could
they do? Where could they go? With luck, the men might make it through; the
women and children never could.
Fallon opened his campaign with a wide, friendly smile. “Believe me, you are
more fortunate than you realize. That wheel of yours must have been inspired to
break down here. You need go no further.”
He turned to the water barrel. “May I?”
Dipping water into his hat with the drinking gourd, he held it for his grateful
horse. He took only the smallest sip himself, but it sent an agonizing,
unbelievable coolness throughput his body.
When his horse had emptied the hat, Fallon hung up the gourd. His eyes at that
moment fell upon the sorrel horse tied to the tailgate of the other wagon, and
he seemed to consider for a moment. “Have you ever heard,” he asked, “of the
town of Red Horse?”
He moved closer to the fire and the bacon, fighting the urge to drink more, and
still more. “Red Horse,” he continued, “was a mining town born suddenly from a
rocky gorge. It was said to be the richest strike among the mines.”
He paused … would nobody offer him a cup of coffee?
“My Uncle Joe, God rest his soul, was among the founders, owner of the richest
claim. Then the Piutes came … suddenly in the night … and every man-jack of
them was slaughtered … wiped out.”
He glanced around the group, then moved again to the water barrel and dipped the
gourd. All eyes were upon him, all were listening avidly, except one girl, who
looked at him with cool, disdainful eyes.
He touched the gourd to his lips and allowed a little more water to trickle to
the parched tissues of his mouth and throat. “The town and the claims were
forgotten. They had existed too short a time to be generally known, those who
knew the most about the place were dead, the claims were deserted, the buildings
empty.”
He sipped water again. “One thing, and one only, prevented Red Horse from being
forever lost.”
He had their attention, all right. They had forgotten their troubles, even
forgotten where they were, yet he knew it was less what he said that was
important than what their imaginations would do to the story.
“My uncle,” he said, “had written a letter.” He put his hand on his breast. “I
have it … here.”
“That’s all very well, mister.” It was the girl with the skeptical eyes. “But
what has that to do with us?”
Fallon held a mouthful of water for an instant before swallowing it. And he knew
his horse would be desperate for more, having had not more than a few swallows.
“Do I smell coffee? And bacon?” No use waiting for an invitation. “Perhaps we
could discuss the situation over supper?”
His strategy had only begun, and he needed time. He had his overall plan, but
there were ramifications to be worked out.
He had already decided that these were no lambs ready for the fleecing, for they
had little—at least, by his standards. A few supplies, some equipment, their
weapons, the animals and wagons. He doubted they had cash to any amount; but one
of the wagons had several packing cases that he could see.
The younger ones still clung, no doubt, to a dream of golden riches from the
mines. The older ones—he knew the signs—had long since begun to disbelieve. The