Moreover, Brennan was a man who censured no man. Even in the short time since
his arrival in Red Horse, his philosophy had become known. John Brennan turned
no man from his bar.
Al had taken only a few steps when a voice stopped him. It was Lute Semple.
“You’re pretty fast with that gun, Al. I saw that. You slicked it out mighty
fast.”
Al Damon shrugged, standing wide-legged on the walk. “He came for me,” he said.
“What I hear,” Semple said dryly. “When we heard about it, we figured it was
Fallon you’d killed.” He paused to let the idea sink in. “Could have been, you
know. The same way. It would work on him better than on Bates.”
“Who’s Bates?”
“The man you killed.” Lute Semple waited for a moment, and then added: “He was a
well-liked man. He’d two brothers back in Illinois that set store by him.”
“What’s that to me?”
“You ain’t used to it yet, kid. Why, those brothers, they’ll come huntin’ you.
You’ll have to keep a sharp eye out from now on.”
Al shifted his feet uneasily. “What did you mean, it would work on Fallon easier
than Bates?”
“It’s an easy thing to let a man bump into you or, if there’s nobody around, to
let on the other man drew first. That Fallon … he doesn’t have many friends.
“Bates was nobody. Fallon, now, that’s a different story.” Lute Semple paused.
“Bellows, he’s all for lettin’ Tandy Herren come into town, and Tandy wants to
come. Only I figured you should have your chance.”
Semple struck a match to the stub of a cigar. “Far as that goes, we could give
you a mite of help. Not that you’d need help, but insurance that don’t cost
nothin’ is another thing.”
“Where would you be?”
“That store across from the Yankee’s got an upper story with nobody in it. A
couple of us with Winchesters could come up the back stairs and we could lay
there. When Fallon came out the door, you could bump him and draw, and when you
did, we’d cut down on him from the window. Then we’d down the steps and hightail
it.”
Macon Fallon was at breakfast at his usual table in the Yankee Saloon when Wiley
Pollock came in. Pollock was a tall, strapping young man with a genial
expression that masked an underlying seriousness.
“Are you Mr. Fallon?” Pollock asked. “They tell me you have some mining claims
for sale.”
Fallon allowed no hint of his elation to come into his expression. “Well, let’s
put it this way. I have some claims. I won’t say they’re for sale. On the other
hand, I was never much of a man to dig, so if the price was right I might talk
about it.”
He refilled his coffee cup and then pushed another cup toward Pollock. “Are you
a miner?”
“Not exactly,” Pollock replied, “but I came west to mine, not farm.” He looked
sharply at Fallon. “Nobody seems to be mining … why?”
“My fault. A town isn’t built by people who want to get rich overnight. I wanted
some business going here first; but personally,” he added, “I have been doing
some development and exploration on my claims.”
They talked for half an hour, and then together they went up the hill to the
mine.
Wiley Pollock looked around thoughtfully. It was obvious that some work had been
done. The tools stood about, and also the wheelbarrow Fallon had used. There was
fresh rock thrown on the dump. Pollock went into the tunnel and knocked off a
couple of chunks of rock and studied them.
Fallon stooped suddenly and picked up a piece of rock, glanced at it quickly,
and thrust it into his pocket.
“May I see that?” Pollock extended his hand.
“It was nothing,” Fallon said, with studied carelessness, “nothing at all.”
Pollock walked out into the sun and looked around again. “How much are you
asking?” he said.
Fallon shook his head. “I am sorry. I don’t believe I will sell. I’ll admit,” he
said, “I’m not a miner, and I have been ready to sell if the price was right,
but I don’t think I’ll sell … not yet.”
Pollock looked at him shrewdly. “Have anything to do with that rock you picked
up back there?”
“No … no, of course not.”
“I’ll give you three thousand cash,” Pollock said.
“Sorry.”
Macon Fallon looked down the street. Three thousand? It was a good bit of money.
Take it, and run. The thought went through his mind, but he dismissed the idea.
At the door of the. Yankee Saloon, Fallon paused. “I might go higher,” Pollock
suggested.
“It would have to be much higher,” Fallon responded. And then he pushed through
the door and went in. At the bar, he said to Brennan, “John, let me have your
hammer.”
Pollock still stood on the boardwalk out front. He heard the back door close,
then the sound of a hammer on rock, several blows, and then a grating sound.
After a few minutes Fallon came back through the saloon, leaving the hammer on
the bar as he went through. He crossed the street to Damon’s store.
“Get out your gold scales, Damon. I want to weigh up a little.”
Fallon took out the gold he had collected at the mountain spring. In most gold
camps a teaspoonful was calculated as an ounce, and he had less than that, but
it would be more than enough.
“Half-ounce,” Damon said, “a mite over. My guess would be twelve dollars.”
“All right.”
Damon paid over the twelve dollars and Fallon slipped it into his pocket.
“Get that on your claim?” Damon asked.
Fallon chuckled. “One piece of rock … no bigger than your fist.”
Damon’s eyes tried to shield his interest. “Much of it around?”
Fallon shrugged. “Probably not… float, more than likely.”
He crossed the street and went into the Yankee Saloon again, and within a few
minutes he saw Pollock go into the store across the way. Smiling to himself, he
went to the back and sat down. Brennan’s eyes followed him.
Joshua Teel came in, and Budge followed. “Mr. Fallon, are you busy?” Budge said.
“What is it?”
“Maloon’s place. Card Graham’s making trouble. He rooked a couple of newcomers
last night, then laughed at them when they called him on it.”
“He didn’t shoot?”
“They weren’t heeled. But I think they’ll be back.”
Fallon looked down at his coffee. He had told them what he would do. Of course,
he had seen nothing, but it sounded to him like a deliberate challenge. But what
about the men he rooked? Would they come back?
“You saw them,” he said to Teel. “Will they come back?”
“They’ll come. He trimmed them good, and didn’t seem to care whether they knew
it or not.”
Macon Fallon got to his feet. “I’ll talk to Graham.” He stepped outside and
looked down the street. He could see the wagons of the newcomers on the flat
below the town.
Across the street, on the upper floor of the building, Lute Semple pointed at
him. “See?” he said. “He’s right where I want him. You call him, I shoot him.
Everybody will think it was you. But you shoot twice, d’you hear? And miss that
second shot so there’ll be a place for mine if they try to figure it out.”
“Yours might be in the back.”
“That’s why I say your second should miss. You can claim your first shot turned
him. But maybe I can get a bullet into him in front… I’ll try.”
Down in the street Macon Fallon straightened his hat. “I’ll talk to Graham,” he
said, “and Maloon.”
“You’d best hurry, then,” Teel replied grimly, “for here they come!”
Two men were walking up the street, both of them with guns strapped on. They
were some distance off, but they walked in step and with determination, and they
looked neither to right nor left.
Several men stepped out on the boardwalk as they passed, and a woman or two. The
story had gotten around, and everyone knew what was happening. Fallon quickened
his step, but he was too late. The two men did a perfect flanking movement at
the door, and one of them reached up to push the door open.
The double-barreled shotgun blast ripped through the door and drove the man
backward into the street Graham had fired, and then reaching up, caught a second
shotgun tossed to him by Maloon. Instantly he was at the door, firing again.
The second man, shocked by the coughing bellow of the shotgun and by his
friend’s sudden death, hesitated that fraction of a second that made him too
late. The blast the second shotgun threw at him tore him half in two.
Macon Fallon spoke quietly. “Empty now, isn’t it?”
Card Graham seemed to wince, then he turned his head slowly, as a rattler may