He put on his hat and went down the stairs, nodding to Brennan as he passed.
Brennan put his cigar down on the edge of the bar and watched Fallon down the
street. Brennan’s eyes showed worry.
Fallon crossed the street and went into the Damon store. He was well inside the
door before he saw that the store was empty except for Ginia Blane, who was
behind the counter.
He started to go out, but her voice stopped him. “Mr. Fallon, is there something
I can do for you?”
Turning back, he walked to the counter. “Yes.” He spoke shortly, crisply,
wanting no talk. “You can sell me a canteen. I notice you have several in
stock.”
“Of course.” She looked into his eyes, “Are you going somewhere?”
Damn the girl! He flashed her an angry look before he could put a guard on his
feelings, then he replied, “Oh, I scout around the country a good deal, and I
want to look over the desert west of here.”
She got the canteen for him and filled his other requests. He commented on her
working in the store.
“Mr. Damon is in the fields today, and Al won’t help him, so he hired me.” She
looked into his eyes again. “You must be careful. Al Damon does not like you.”
He was surprised at her warning. “I should think it would please you if
something happened to rid the town of me.”
“Indeed, it would not. We need you.”
“The town needs no one.” He gathered his purchases. He hesitated an instant,
suddenly reluctant to leave. Glancing at her, he surprised her blue eyes wide
with some unexpected emotion, and it startled and upset him. He glanced
hurriedly away. “There is no such thing as an indispensable man.”
“You are wrong. There are often indispensable men.” She stepped closer to the
counter. “Mr. Fallon, I have much to learn, and some of it Mr. Teel has been
explaining to me. I know what you did with that money you won. I know why you
played that game, risking all you had.”
“I played it to win,” he said. “Graham was not the sort of man a town needs.”
She frowned at him. “I can’t begin to understand you, Mr. Fallon. You are a
gambler, and yet in this town you have tolerated no gamblers. You have
deliberately chosen men who have trades, substantial men.”
“Gamblers are birds of passage. I am a bird of passage.”
“And so you would leave us?”
“I’ve said nothing about leaving,” he replied impatiently, “but what difference
would it make if I did? The first time they had a chance to be rid of me, they
tried it. They will try again.”
“Feelings change. I believe the attitude has changed here.”
She came from behind the counter and he walked a step or two toward the door,
but she came up to him. “I think you are a fraud, Mr. Fallon. I think you are a
tremendous fraud!”
His smile was sardonic. “I thought you knew that … you accused me of switching
the town’s name for some … some reason or other.”
“I do not mean that. I think you are a fraud, Mr. Fallon, because I believe you
are a good man and a good citizen masquerading as a gambler, a cheat, and a
drifter.”
“You talk like a fool!” he said sharply. “You’re a romantic child!”
He stepped outside quickly before she could say more, and walked swiftly up the
street. He swore bitterly. Damn the girl.
Suddenly he paused. One more thing he would do. He would close out Maloon.
Turning on his heel, he went down the street and entered the saloon. There were
half a dozen men drinking at the bar. The card tables were empty.
He wasted no time. “Maloon, you tossed that shotgun to Graham. I heard of that.
You tolerated his presence here. We do not want your kind. Brennan will buy you
out for what you have invested … then get out.”
Spike Maloon took the cigar from his mouth and squinted through the smoke.
“And if I do not?”
“We will run you out.”
“We?” Spike Maloon picked up his cigar and glanced at it. “You would need help,
of course. I never use a gun, so you’d have no excuse to use one on me.”
“You have been told. Now sell out, and get out.”
“Too bad,” Maloon said, running his eyes over Fallon. “I’d not have believed you
were yellow. You stand up pretty well, good shoulders, good hands. I would have
guessed you could take care of yourself. But you always have that gun to hide
behind … and now you hide behind this ‘we’ you speak of.
“But it is just as well. You’d have no more chance with me with your hands than
I would with you with a gun.”
Fallon knew he was being baited, deliberately baited by a man who was positive
of what he could do. There were others standing about, but he knew they expected
nothing of him. No doubt there was not a man present who would not think him
wise to leave things as they were.
Yet there was a lurking devil of Irish madness in him, and he looked at Spike
Maloon with real pleasure. “It is a foolish thing you do,” he said cheerfully,
“to challenge me in this way. You have a reputation as a fearful man with your
fists, Spike Maloon, and when it comes to that, you have nothing else. Lose
that, and you will have nothing at all. It is not a thing to be lightly risked.”
Spike Maloon’s surprise did not show on his face, but surprised he was, and
profoundly. He had it in mind to dare Fallon into a fight and then whip him
within an inch of his life—destroy him, in fact. Yet Fallon’s way of rising to
the bait made him wary … could the man fight, then?
“I’ll lose nothing. The man never lived who could handmuck a Maloon, but if
you’ve a mind to fight, then stack your duds and grease your skids, for I shall
tear down your meathouse!”
Suddenly, Macon Fallon felt good. He felt fine. This was a fitting thing, this
last bit he could do for Red Horse, and for himself as well. For weeks now he
had been a discontented man, with much wearing on his mind, and not always
certain of the way to go. But in a fight, a slam-bang, knock-down and drag-out
fist fight there were no complications. It was root-hog or die, and suddenly and
with pleasure, he took off his gun belt.
In an instant the yell went up the street, “Fight! Fight! It’s Fallon and Maloon
… Fight!” And they came running—from all the corners of town they came
running.
At the Yankee Saloon, John Brennan heard the cry and turned around so sharply
that the ash fell from his cigar. “The man’s daft!” he exclaimed. “He’s bloody
daft!”
Devol started to his feet to rush to the fight, but Teel’s voice brought him up
short. Think, man!” he yelled. “Remember what we were told!”
Brennan grabbed up a bucket and caught up some water in it, and then filled a
bottle with it, fresh and cold. With a towel over his arm, he started down the
street, not forgetting the lock on the door he closed behind him.
Spike Maloon was stripped to the waist in the street and Macon Fallon was
carefully folding his coat over the hitch rail when Brennan arrived.
“He has forty pounds on you,” Brennan said, “as well as height and reach. Is
there a way out, then?”
“Through him,” Fallon replied, grinning. “The way out is through him. The only
way out is to tear him apart or beat him down, for he stands across my way.”
“Have at it, then, but he has a jaw like granite, I’ve heard. You’d best not
waste your hands on it.”
It looked as if the whole town was there, and not the last was Ginia Blane, for
she left the store almost running, slamming the door locked behind her.
Something winked at the corner of her eye as she ran, some sudden flash of
sunlight, but she gave it no thought.
Lute Semple was on the upper floor with a mirror, playing the flash against the
far-off hills. A moment later there came an answering flash, and he put the
mirror down and picked up his rifle, checking the load.
He glanced at the sun … how long would it take them? “Make it last, Fallon,”
he whispered to himself. “Make it last!”
Macon Fallon stripped to the waist and accepted from Brennan a pair of driving
gloves, into which he slipped his hands. Maloon looked at them and laughed.
“You’re a fool, man,” he said. “They’ll do you no good.”
“What is it?” Budge demanded. “To a finish?”