then you saw our sorrel, and you came up very quickly with a name … Red Horse.
“Naturally, when we moved into town I was curious, and was surprised there
wasn’t the name of the town anywhere. There was only one sign missing—the sign
in front of the bank.”
“You have a devious mind, Miss Blane. When one is so suspicious of others, it
makes a man wonder if there isn’t something wrong with the thinking of that
person.”
She was attractive, too damned attractive. Suddenly he wanted to be rid of her.
Why didn’t she ride back down to town? Was she spying on him? Yet for what
reason? She seemed to know all that was necessary to expose him.
“You know about Buell’s Bluff?”
“Yes … I was a little girl at the time, but I had an uncle who was very
excited about it until the boom collapsed.” She regarded him with those cool
eyes. “It was a fraud.”
“Is a town ever a fraud?” he said gently. “A town is made up of people, and
until there are people there can be no town. John Buell is gone. The people who
came with him are gone, and I did not let them come back. So what we have here
is a town not only with a new name, but with a new life.” He looked up at her
and smiled. “Miss Blane, how can a collection of old, empty buildings be a
fraud?”
“You are very glib.”
“Your father is here … he is part of the town. Is he a fraud? Is Joshua Teel a
fraud? Or your friend Damon?”
She was not to be put off. “What about you? Are you a fraud?”
He shrugged, spreading his hands. “Who can say what he is? Are you so sure of
yourself? I am not sure at all. I do not know what I am.
“Look.” He swept a hand toward the town. “There it is. I think the prospect is
pleasant. It was an empty shell. Now there are homes here, citizens earning a
living. There are fields with crops springing up, there is water to irrigate,
soon one of our cows will calve. Our town may die, but now it lives … let us
help it.”
He dropped his hands. “Anyway, what difference can one man make in the destiny
of a town? If I were a fraud, need it matter? The town would go on without me.”
She considered that, and then she shook her head slowly. “No, Mr. Fallon, I do
not think it would. As much as I dislike you, and as much as some of them down
there dislike you, I do not think the town would live or could live without
you.”
It was a point gained, and he grasped it quickly. “Perhaps, then,” he said
quietly, “I am not a fraud.”
When she was safely down the hill he sat down and swore. That damned girl had a
way of talking that angered him. He should keep his mouth shut and let her talk,
but she kept prying, and something forced him to come up with the answers.
That the town would die without him was nonsense. But the thought irritated him,
and it brought a sense of guilt that he did not appreciate. After all, what
difference did it make? Was he his brother’s keeper?
But that was not the problem now. If Ginia told what she knew—and there was no
reason she shouldn’t—there would be an exodus from the town as sudden and
dramatic as that other one, years before. At all costs, he must make a deal.
Chapter V
Macon Fallon returned to his quarters above the saloon and put together a small
pack. From Damon, in lieu of cash, he had a few days previously taken some
clothing, blankets, and other necessities. Now he packed his clothing, his extra
ammunition, the few toilet articles he used, and a couple of books he had found
in the hotel.
Only when that was done did he go to the stable behind the saloon, where he
watered the black horse, filled the manger with forage, and checked the horse’s
shoes to be sure he was ready for travel.
“When we go,” he whispered to the black horse, “we will go fast and far … and
it can happen at just any time.”
Uneasily, he paused in the stable door. Why not saddle up and go right now? Why
wait for the chance of a big killing that might never materialize? He had
escaped from the Utes as much by luck as by ability, and he had outsmarted and
outmaneuvered Iron John Buell only with the help of his loyal friends. He might
not be so lucky again.
The Utes were out there, undoubtedly watching the town, and Bellows was out
there, too. Within the town there was unrest, and at least some people who
disliked him. And there was Al Damon, his gun belted on, itching for a chance to
prove he was a tough man.
Sourly, Fallon looked at the town. What was wrong with him? Why was he wasting
time now on building the place? He had all the front he needed. All that
remained was a sucker with enough money.
Yet that might take a long time and he was a fool to wait. He had a feeling his
luck was running out, and it was the sort of hunch to which he had always paid
attention in the past.
He went up the stairs to his room and looked around gloomily. It was empty as a
barn … no place for a man to live. And nothing for him downstairs but coffee
and a talk with John Brennan.
He glanced at the two books thrust down into his unstrapped pack—purposely he
had left it open for the last few items. He had always wanted to read more, but
there had never seemed to be time. Yet he knew that was not true, either—there
was always time. One simply had to make time, and there was always a lot a man
did that was trifling and altogether unimportant.
Thoughts of the town crowded his mind. Red Horse was booming, and he had done
this; but now he was impatient, knowing he should be on his way, knowing he had
stayed far too long. He had the uncomfortable feeling that things were bunching
up on him.
There was one thing he could do, and he did it. He put on his hat and went down
the street and personally thanked each of the men who had stood with him against
Buell and his crowd.
Al Damon was loafing in front of Pearly Gates’ old place, now reopened as a
saloon by a big burly man called Spike Maloon. The sight of the boy made Fallon
nervous, for he knew what Damon was thinking. Had he not been the son of one of
those first settlers of Red Horse, Macon Fallon would not have been disturbed,
but he felt he owed those men a debt, and he knew the trouble that was wrapped
up in Al Damon.
Damon turned to look at him as he approached, and there was a challenge in his
eyes. Fallon merely glanced at him, saying, “Hello, Al.” Then he paused
momentarily. “Riding in the hills lately?”
Al Damon had been building himself up to say something, to say anything to
challenge this man. He kept telling himself he had to kill him. Bellows wanted
him killed, and it was up to him to do it. But the sudden remark, dropped so
casually into the pool of his small security, sent ripples that rocked his boat
of assurance.
His mouth opened to speak. Did Fallon know? But how could he? Had he been
followed? Al felt a sudden chill of apprehension … suppose Fallon told his
father?
But Fallon had turned his back and gone into the saloon.
Spike Maloon was behind the bar, a powerful man with great, square-knuckled
fists and bulging biceps. He took a cigar from between his white, even teeth and
looked Fallon over coolly. This was a man who had faced much trouble and had
handled it.
At a table sat a slender, wiry man who got up and strolled to the bar. His
features were narrow and hawklike, his eyes set too close together. Fallon
glanced at him, noting the way the gambler held his right hand. Wearing a
sleeve-gun, Macon, he told himself. Watch this one.
“I’m Fallon,” he said. “You can run this place as long as you run it honest. One
sound like a crooked game, and I’ll close you up.”
Across the street Joshua Teel had stopped by Al Damon. “Did Fallon go in there?”
he asked.
“Yeah.”
Teel turned his head and looked up the street to where Devol was loading some
gear into a wagon. “Devol—come along down here, will you?”