present disaster had been the clincher, and now they were frightened. Hardship
they understood and could take; struggle, poverty—these were expected. But now
they feared death, and riches they no longer hoped for.
With the eyes of one who had often looked upon men in trouble, he knew that
these people had come to the end of their resources. Heat, dust, exhaustion, and
the seemingly limitless miles that lay ahead had robbed them of their strength.
They no longer knew which way to turn. Their stock was weak from hunger, the
water in the barrels was stale, and it was insufficient for the trip that lay
before them.
And besides all that, what they now lacked was hope, and that he meant to give
them. In Buell’s Bluff there could be no hope, so he had invented Red Horse.
What’s in a name? A town by any other name can be as big a fraud.
Yes, he could give them hope, but he was honest enough to attribute no motives
to himself that he did not deserve. The truth was, he needed these people for
his own purposes. What he had in mind was a colossal swindle, but if he brought
it off he could then proceed to San Francisco in style.
As he talked, he became eloquent. They could go on if they so desired. The trail
lay open before them. It was true their stock looked bad, and their wagons were
overloaded for what lay ahead. It was, he went on, at least fifty miles to the
next water—he saw what a shock that gave them—but if what they wanted was land,
gold, or a business of their own, they need go no further.
As he talked, he ate. He drank coffee, he ate again.
And as he talked he found himself putting ideas into words that he had not even
dreamed of before. Possibilities occurred to him as he spoke. From an inner
pocket he drew an envelope, and on the back of the letter he drew up an
agreement.
“The town of Red Horse,” he said, “belongs to me, but it has been abandoned for
years. It occupies an intermediate point upon the trail, and with the coming of
spring there will be money to be made.
“People will arrive here as you have arrived. They will be short of provisions,
almost out of water, and they will need to lay in supplies. For this they will
be ready to exchange goods or pay cash.
“I have here an agreement. Those who wish to go no further, and wish to come
with me to Red Horse, will sign it. Those who sign will move to Red Horse with
me. We will brush up and clean up, and open the town for business. You may sort
out whatever you can spare and put it up for sale.”
“I brought a stock of goods,” one man said suddenly. “Planned to keep store in
California.”
“Good! We will sell them at—” He caught himself first in time, for he had
started to say ‘at exorbitant prices,’ but hastily dropped the adjective. Macon
Fallon had observed that even merchants who sell at exorbitant prices do not
like to admit to it.
“You will be free to stake claims as long as you leave mine alone, but let me
assure you the finding of gold in paying quantity, either here or in California,
is a very rare thing. The real gold will lie in the pockets of those who come to
hunt for gold.
“Whether they find gold or not, they must eat, wear clothing, use tools. I will
take thirty per cent of your business profits, ten per cent of your claims.”
“That’s ridiculous!” It was that girl with the cool eyes who spoke. “We provide
the goods, and you take thirty per cent! Why, we can go further west, set up
shop, and keep it all.”
He smiled at her across the heads of the others, admiring her slender figure,
the way she stood straight on her two feet. At the same time, he wished she were
already in California—or back where she came from. Anywhere but here, now.
“The way west is open, of course,” he said. “You don’t need me.”
He turned abruptly and walked back to his horse, filling his hat again from the
barrel. He was not worried, for he knew what they must do.
After giving his horse water, he occupied the next few minutes in brushing the
dust from his coat, and wiping the action of his Winchester. His wrists were
still raw from the chafing of the rope, and he had to watch to keep his cuffs
over the marks. From his saddlebags he took his spare .44 and holstered it. It
was his good fortune that the lynching party had been both drunk and
overconfident.
As he brushed himself off and checked his guns, he considered the situation.
Until he glimpsed that weathered sign lying forgotten in the brush, he had not
thought of Buell’s Bluff in years. Never having seen a map of the area, and
approaching it from a different direction, he had not even realized he was in
the vicinity. He had been one of those who had followed that ill-fated gold rush
so long ago. Of course, the town might have burned, but he thought not. At least
something would be left. And as he recalled, there was water on the site.
The niche in the hills where the town lay was well hidden, and there was small
chance it had been rediscovered, or that any of the original miners had
returned. Buell’s Bluff had been in the beginning what he was about to make it
again—a fraud and a deception.
Yet, he told himself, how could these people do better? At least it would give
their stock a chance to rest and recuperate. With their overloaded wagons they
could never cross the desert to the west. Their oxen were already tried beyond
their endurance. One or two would surely die, then the others would be unable to
haul the wagons, and then more would die.
These were good people, and he planned no deception for them—at least, not one
that would cost them anything. And he did offer them hope, and some security
without going further.
He could hear them arguing, and the girl protesting. Why couldn’t she keep her
pretty mouth shut?
After several minutes the sandy-haired man walked over to him and thrust out his
hand. “My name is Blane. This is Tom Damon. Is there gold there? At Red Horse?”
He had them now.
“My uncle said it was the richest strike in the mines.” The most gold his uncle
had ever seen was in his wife’s wedding ring. “Naturally, I can promise nothing.
I do not know what there is.”
He paused. “Remember this: we do not have to find gold to do business. There
will be trade with the wagon trains.”
Blane scowled. “There will be a saloon. I do not hold with whiskey-drinking.”
“Leave that to me. There will be order in the town.”
“All right,” Blane agreed finally. “It is a hard bargain you drive, but we have
no choice.”
Would the trail be washed out? Fallon knew what heavy rains could do to any
trail in this country; so at his suggestion all the oxen were hitched to one
wagon, leaving young Jim Blane, who was sixteen, and Al Damon, who was nineteen,
to guard the remaining wagon. Once arrived in Red Horse, they could dismount a
wheel and return for the other wagon.
Macon Fallon, somewhat shamed by the hope he now saw in their faces, rode ahead
to guide them. He had gone only a short distance when Ginia Blane overtook him.
Ginia obviously was not one to beat about the chaparral. “Mr. Fallon,” she said,
“is this a wild-goose chase?”
Something warned Macon Fallon that lying to Ginia would not be easy. The direct
look from those cool gray eyes was disconcerting. Buell’s Bluff, hastily
rechristened Red Horse, had been a monumental fraud, a gold rush promoted with a
few carefully salted claims. Before the fraud was discovered men had rushed in,
built stores, saloons, and a hotel. Investors who had missed the Comstock rushed
to hand their money to the swindlers of Buell’s Bluff.
Then a salted mine was found, others were hastily investigated, and within hours
the exodus had begun. Within days the town was deserted. When the bottom fell
out, the thud with which it fell was felt as far away as Boston, New York, and
even London. That had been ten years ago, and so far as Fallon was aware, nobody
had been near the place since.
“Gold,” he declared with great originality, “is where you find it—and one never
knows. It was said to be a great strike, but after the Piute attack it was
deserted.”
That statement was true. It had been said to be a great strike, and Piutes had