Inside the saloon, the gambler looked at Fallon. “You are calling me dishonest?”
“I am calling you nothing. I know nothing about you. I am simply telling you.”
“We heard you ran this town,” Matoon said. “We are telling you now … you don’t
run this place. We don’t pay your percentage. You won’t close us up.”
A faint smile crossed Fallon’s face. “We will discuss that when the time comes,”
he said quietly. “As for collecting my percentage, I’ll do that.” He glanced at
the gambler. “I like a little game myself once in a while.”
The gambler smiled. “By all means … whenever you’re in the mood.”
When Fallon emerged upon the street he saw Teel and Devol waiting outside, ready
to come in. “Thanks,” he said. “Glad to have you on hand.”
“Trouble?”
“There will be.” He paused. “That gambler in there—that’s Card Graham. He’s
killed two men over poker games, and at least one over a woman. If you hear any
reports of cheating, have him brought to me. Pass the word around, will you?”
He started to turn away, but stopped. “He carries a sleeve-gun. When a man knows
how to use it, it is the fastest draw there is.”
“Fallon?”
He turned back to Devol. “Yes?”
“The big fellow in there—he won’t fight with a gun. He makes a point of never
carrying one. He’s a bruiser.”
Fallon considered that. “Do you know him?”
“He was one of John Morrissey’s roughnecks back in New York. He belonged to one
of the fire companies who fought against Pool and that crowd.”
Macon Fallon remembered the tremendous brawls in New York some years before,
when the rival factions of Morrissey and Poole had met in the streets. Morrissey
had, at one time, claimed the heavyweight championship of the world, and was a
noted brawler who later founded the gambling in Saratoga and became an important
man in New York politics.
Men were frequently killed in those brawls, to say nothing of the ears torn off,
the eyes gouged, or the ugly scars left by teeth or stabbing thumbnails. If
Spike Maloon was a graduate of that school, he was a tough man.
“Get out of here, you damned fool!” Fallon told himself as he walked away. “Get
out while the getting’s good.”
But he did not go. He told himself several times a day he was a fool, but he
still stayed on.
The truth was, he liked the place. The town was growing and, following his
example, several of the new residents had begun to plant gardens, trim trees,
and generally make the place more attractive.
There was little trouble in town. The residents were mostly a hard-working lot,
and family men. The few drunks were usually passing through, and it was rarely
necessary to do more than suggest they go to bed.
But it was too good to last.
Trouble began suddenly. A wagon, only a mile the other side of the bridge, was
attacked and three people slain.
Everybody in Red Horse heard the shot, but when they arrived on the scene, the
man, his wife, and young son were dead, the wagon looted, the horses driven off.
It might have been Utes, but several of the riders rode shod horses.
“Stolen horses, probably,” Blane suggested “Ridden by Indians.”
“Or by white men,” Fallon said grimly. “This is a typical Bellows stunt.”
And then came the night when Al Damon killed a man.
The wagons arrived just before sundown. They were mostly freighters, but several
wagons of men with families headed for Oregon had joined the freighters for
protection. One of these was a man of about forty, a tall, lean man, who came
into town for a drink.
He stopped at Maloon’s place, had one drink, and then another. During the time
he was there he had nothing to say, but when he left the shadowed saloon and
stepped out into the bright sunlight he ran into Al Damon.
He had come out of the saloon fast, like a man who had just remembered
something, and when he bumped into Al Damon he staggered Al, knocking him back
two steps.
Al swore and grabbed for his gun. Even as his hand grasped the butt, something
inside him seemed to scream No! No! but he had been thinking of it too long: the
gun swung up and he looked across it into the startled eyes of the stranger.
“Please! I didn’t mean—”
The gun in Al’s hand seemed to cough, and the man turned around and fell against
the side of the building. Then slowly, he sagged down to his knees.
Somewhere a woman screamed and people came running. The woman threw herself upon
the fallen man, screaming and crying, as the stranger again turned half around
and, looking at Al Damon with awful, staring eyes he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t
mean—”
The man died that way, against the building, his wife clutching him, her body
shuddering with wild sobs. He died with his eyes on Al Damon.
“Look,” Al protested, “I didn’t—” but nobody was paying any attention.
“He was packing a gun!” Al’s tone had become pleading. “I saw his gun.”
Joshua Teel turned from the dead man. “Buttoned into its holster. He was looking
for somebody to fix it. Had a broke firing pin.”
“How could I know that?” Al protested. “I—”
“You’ve been hunting it,” Budge from the cafe interrupted. “For days now you’ve
been swaggering around, playing tough, letting everybody see you were carrying a
gun. Well, now you’ve killed a man … a man who did nobody any harm. You made a
widow and three orphans.”
“You murdered him,” Hamilton said. “That there was murder.”
Al Damon backed off. He was suddenly sick inside, and he knew he was about to
throw up. He had to get off the street before that happened. Abruptly, he turned
into an alleyway.
He had killed a man.
He half fell against the building and was sick. How could he know the man was
carrying a useless gun? The man had shoved him … well, it seemed like that,
anyway.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went around behind the
buildings.
He wanted to go home, but the thought of his mother’s eyes stopped that idea.
Instead, he climbed over the corral bars and went into the stable, where he
crawled back on the freshly cut hay and put his back against the wall. The
staring eyes of the dying man and those frightful sobs stayed with him. He
cowered there, and finally he slept.
When he awoke it was dark. He listened for some sound, but heard nothing. He
crawled out of the hay and carefully brushed himself off; and then he thought of
his gun, and he reloaded the empty chamber.
Well, suppose he did kill that stranger? He asked for it, didn’t he? He came
barreling out of that door and almost knocked him down. Why, when it came to
that, he had acted in self-defense. Looked like he was being jumped on—how was
he to know?
He looked down at his gun. He had killed a man. He could file a notch on it now.
The momentary twinge he had felt was stifled by a growing pride. It wasn’t
everybody could say that… that they’d killed a man.
When he got back on the street he hitched his gun a little further forward. All
right… so let them talk. If they got tough with him he’d …
The street was empty. Lights shone from a few windows. It was after suppertime
and he was hungry. He went into the restaurant.
Two strangers were there, and both got up very pointedly and walked toward the
door, leaving their food. Budge came from the kitchen with coffee just as they
were leaving. “Hey, here’s your coffee!” he called.
“Forget it,” one man said. “We’d rather go hungry.”
Al Damon felt the blood rising to his face. Should he call them on that? He
started to turn, uncertain as to what he should do, when Budge spoke.
“Get out,” he said coldly, “and don’t come in here again. We don’t serve your
kind.”
Al hesitated, appalled and angry. Budge stooped and took a double-barreled
shotgun from under the counter. “Get going,” he said. “If it was up to me,
there’d be a hanging party tonight.”
Al walked out onto the street. They couldn’t talk that way to him! Just
wait—he’d show them!
He needed a horse—above all things, he needed a horse. To hell with them! He
would ride and join Bellows!
But where to go now? He still had no desire to go home, and he suspected the
feeling evidenced by Budge would be present almost everywhere. And then he
thought of the Yankee Saloon.
Fallon would probably be there. He might not be, but if he was, it was high time
they met, for now they would meet on a new footing. Fallon must respect him now.