killed the last men to leave the town. Nine men had died in that sudden raid.
“I don’t trust you, Mr. Fallon,” Ginia said, “and if you take advantage of us I
shall find a way to make you pay.”
No tracks showed on the trail, nor any evidence of travel. Heavy rains had
gouged gullies across the road, and in places had turned the trail itself into a
watercourse, cutting deep ruts. Fallon stopped several times to roll rocks into
the deeper ruts, or to kick down the sides and make passage easier for the
wagon.
The town lay upon a long bench that bordered a wash on the far side. Actually,
the wash curved around the bench, which was more than a mile long. The town was
backed up against the mountain at the farthest end of the bench, and behind the
town there was a scattering of trees. Altogether, as he recalled it, the site
was far from uninviting.
Yet nothing in the country over which they rode suggested any town, or any
evidence of water. It was singularly barren and depressing.
Suddenly Ginia Blane drew rein. “Where are you taking us? It’s been miles, and
there’s simply nothing.”
“If I recall,” he replied mildly, “you will see the town from the top of that
rise.”
Suspicious, but willing to give him a chance to prove his case, she rode on with
him. They topped out suddenly on the hill overlooking the valley, and the town
lay before them, about a mile away. At this distance, it seemed that time had
not produced any visible change.
It was even larger than he recalled, for there was a street with at least a
dozen business buildings, and a scattering of houses and shacks. In sudden panic
he tried to remember whether any of the signs carried the name of Buell’s Bluff.
He turned to Ginia. “You had best ride back to the wagons. They might not
realize the town is so near and decide to camp for the night. They should come
on through.”
Her eyes searched his face. “Is that the only reason you want me to go back?”
She was lovely, no question of that. She had an attractive figure and a charming
face; but she was his enemy, suspicious of his every word and move.
“Actually,” he replied, “it is not my only reason. So far as I know the town is
deserted, but I cannot be sure. When I ride in I wish to be alone, responsible
only for myself.”
“Also”—this was a sudden inspiration—”in a town so long abandoned there are sure
to be snakes. This country is infested with rattlers.”
He had scored a point, for she drew up instantly, but she was still suspicious.
“You find explanations very easy, don’t you, Mr. Fallon? You are very glib, very
smooth. You are also,” she added, “quite a handsome man, very rugged-looking and
strong, but I think you are a sham, Mr. Fallon.”
Deliberately, she turned her horse and rode back to the wagons, and he looked
after her, feeling no resentment.
Before him lay the town. The sun was setting beyond the distant ridges and they
carried a crimson glow along their serrated edges. He cantered down the hill,
thinking of the water that lay ahead, as the black horse undoubtedly was also.
Never far behind any boom, Macon Fallon had followed the will-o’-the-wisp of
fortune to this place too, only he was younger then, and fortune seemed much
closer.
Yet now, if all went well, he might accomplish his objective and sell out within
ninety days. It was doubtful if anyone in this land of shifting population would
remember the place. People never stopped in this area, but passed on through,
bound for California.
His horse’s hoofs drummed on the old plank bridge, still sturdy and solid.
Sleeping echoes awakened, warning anyone who might be holed up within the town.
Slowing to a walk, he drew his Winchester. At the near end of the street he drew
up, studying the situation.
The windows stared with vacant eyes at the lengthening shadows … a bat swooped
low above him. The town was a picture of silence and desolation. Coarse weeds
and brush grew in the street, and where the boardwalk had broken through, weeds
had filled the spaces. Here and there glass lay upon the walk as it had fallen
from a broken window. Several of the windows had been boarded up, and the hitch
rail was down, lying in the street. The old signs were weathered and faint.
He walked his horse slowly up the street, staring from sign to sign. Memories
flooded back…
Buell’s Bank … that one would have to come down. Susan Brown’s Hats, Shoes and
Notions … Assay Office … Yankee Saloon … Veitch Hotel: Room & Board …
Demings Emporium … General Merchandise … Pearly Gates’ Saloon & Dance Hall
… Mom Jelks’ Home-Made Pies, Cakes & Bread … Blacksmith Shop … There were
others, some almost illegible.
Riding back down the street, he searched for and found Deming’s ladder, which he
had once used long ago, and removed the sign from Buell’s Bank, carefully
breaking it up for kindling.
There was no sign on the long bunkhouse that had offered bunks to those less
discriminating than the hotel patron. Not far from it was the jail, blasted from
solid rock, and boasting three iron-barred cells. It was a gloomy place but, so
far as he remembered, it had never been used.
He led his horse to the reservoir back of the Yankee Saloon, a tank built of
stone some sixteen feet across and, as he recalled, about eight feet deep. A
thin trickle of water ran from the tank, and a somewhat larger trickle ran into
it.
He led the black to the water and let him drink, then after a few minutes led
him back down the street and tied him near the Yankee Saloon. With the butt of
his Winchester he smashed the hasp from the saloon door and pushed it open.
It was still light enough for him to see that the mirror behind the bar was
intact, and that there were several rows of glasses and empty bottles. In the
back a dim stairway led to a balcony, where cavernous doorways opened to several
rooms.
Chairs and tables still stood in the room, and poker chips were scattered about,
a few playing cards among them. Dust lay thick over everything, and cobwebs hung
everywhere. A folded newspaper lay beside a cup and saucer on one of the back
tables. In a corner sat a pot-bellied stove. He opened the stove door and could
feel no draft down the chimney. No doubt birds had nested there.
When he stepped outside his boots echoed on the boardwalk. The sun was gone now,
and gloomy shadows gathered between the buildings and in the lee of the
mountain. Those great empty eyes of the windows stared down upon him.
The short boom had brought capital to the town. Several moneyed men, anxious to
realize on such a boom as the Comstock, had been among the first to rush in. It
was one of these who had built the hotel and the Yankee Saloon.
When the crash came and the people fled, disappointed and angry, they left all
behind that they could not easily carry. Dishes, glassware, books, papers, odds
and ends of clothing—all were left behind. They had fled as if in a hurry to be
free of any evidence of their gullibility.
A vagrant breeze skittered a dry leaf along the walk—the only movement in this
silent place. He was a fool, a fool to attempt what he had in mind, yet what
else was there? If those people in the wagons were trapped by circumstances, he
was trapped too.
He had worked at many things. He had been a buffalo hunter, a cowhand, trail
driver, miner, stage driver, shotgun guard—none of them for long. Longest of all
he had been a gambler.
He glanced at the reflection of himself in a darkening window. His eyes could
make out no detail, but he knew what was there. A tall man, lean of body, wide
of shoulder; a narrow, triangular face, high cheekbones and a strong jaw. On his
jaw a bullet scar gave his face a somewhat piratical cast. A tall man wearing a
black, flat-brimmed hat and a black frock coat; but Fallon saw more than that:
he saw in that vague reflection a shadow, the shadow of failure.
Back down the line somewhere there had been dreams, ambitions, even certainties.
Success had been only just around the corner, tomorrow … now where was it?
Cynically, and without self-deception, he regarded that shadow in the window.
That was Macon Fallon, drifter, gambler, ne’er-do-well, staking his last chance
on a town that was as big a fraud as he was himself.
What had Ginia said? That he was a sham. Well, she was right. There was nothing