Fallon Page 12

  Macon Fallon had never felt more calm, more ready. “You killed two men, Graham, after cheating them of their money. You tried to cheat me, but you’re small time, Graham. You aren’t really good with cards, and you never will be. On the River they would laugh at you.

  “Now I am going to give you a chance. I am going to give you ten minutes to get out of town!”

  Card Graham was trembling inside, trembling with hatred and bitterness, and yet with eagerness. He was going to kill Fallon. He was going to shoot him in the guts and let him die slow.

  He reached for his hat with his left hand and picked it up. He brought it across in front of him and reached for the edge with his right hand, as though to put his hat on with both hands. His right hand disappeared behind the hat, and Macon Fallon shot him.

  Fallon’s gun blasted, tearing a hole in the crown of Graham’s hat and driving the middle button on his belt back into his belly.

  The hat fell, revealing Graham’s smashed hand and bloody fingers and the half-drawn derringer fastened by a metal clip to his left wrist, under the coat sleeve. Graham backed up, fell to the edge of a chair and it turned over, spilling him to the floor. He bumped the table as he fell, and a black ace fell with him.

  Macon Fallon watched the group of men carefully. His eyes went from one to another, but no one spoke until Riordan said, “He had his gun in his hand when you shot him.”

  Fallon stood up and gathered the money from the table. He then put all he had won on the table and split it into three equal piles. One of these he pocketed.

  “Josh,” he said, “each one of those widows gets one of these, and if they will stay in Red Horse we will find homes for them.”

  “They didn’t lose anywhere near that much,” Teel said.

  “They lost their husbands in my town,” Fallon replied shortly. “Take it to them.”

  Fallon walked out into the street and squinted his eyes against the morning sun. He was suddenly tired, very tired. But he had his stake. With the price of the claim he had sold, with the money won in the game with Graham, he had at least twelve thousand dollars.

  He could go now. He was through here.

  Chapter VI

  MACON FALLON STOOD at the window of his rooms above the Yankee Saloon and looked down the street of the town he had created from the ashes of fraud. His eyes were cynical, his mouth twisted wryly. Tomorrow he would ride out. It would be hours before they realized he was not coming back.

  Red Horse had served him well, but he needed it no longer, and the bright lights of San Francisco and the Palace Hotel were calling. Disturbingly, he found his eyes hesitating over the fields, now green with crops.

  The water supply was not to be depended on, so what they must do was drill a well or two down on the flat. There was a good chance of hitting water there, close under the mountain’s edge. The town needed a shoemaker, too. Maybe the harnessmaker could take it on. It also needed a tailor, and an effort should be made to get one out here.

  He swore suddenly, angry with himself for his foolish thoughts. Once Pollock found out there was no gold on his claim, the lid would blow off and the people would be gone, even faster than they had left before. His only chance would be to get out first, before they discovered the town was based on a lie.

  He glanced down at his gear. He would need another canteen, a little more food. 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?”

  “How else?” Fallon said, and moved up to the scratch.

  Maloon was a towering big man, his skin as white as a woman’s, but he was muscled like a Hercules. His hands were huge, and the knuckles bore the scars of many battles. He put up his hands and Macon Fallon moved into him, a dancing devil in his eyes, in his heart a sudden wild urge to slaughter, to destroy.

  He feinted with his left, then followed through with it and the knuckles of his fist smashed against Maloon’s teeth and jolted the bigger man to his heels.

  “So it’s a boxer you are? It’s the kind I like.” Maloon said. “I eat ‘em alive!”

  Fallon feinted again, swung hard with a right, and the fist that struck him came out of nowhere. It struck the side of his face like a bludgeon, and his feet flipped up and he hit the dust. Dazed, he looked up to see Maloon rushing in.

  The big man dove at him and Fallon swung up a leg. His foot caught Maloon in the stomach, and he went on over Fallon to land in a heap. Fallon scrambled to his feet, still dazed, and saw Maloon turn head over heels like an acrobat and come to his feet.

  “You’ve the makings of a fighter, lad,” Maloon said. “Too bad I shall have to destroy you!”

  He stepped in quickly, hitting hard with both hands. Fallon partially blocked the first punch but caught the second on the jaw, and his head rang. A light seemed to burst and shower him with its fragments. He ducked inside another punch, drove his head against Maloon’s chest, then ripped up with his skull in the vicious “Liverpool kiss” known to rough-and-tumble fighters everywhere.

  Maloon’s head was smashed back by the impact of the skull under the chin, and Fallon sprang in, swinging incredibly fast with both fists. The blows landed, rocking Maloon’s big head with their power and staggering him. In close then, Fallon followed through with an elbow smash to the face and stepped back.

  As he did so, a stone rolled under his foot and a smashing fist caught him in the mouth. He tasted blood, and a wild, fierce urge to kill came up within him. He tried to butt again, was smashed back by a hamlike fist, drove in swinging, and had both blows blocked.

  He tried another, and his right missed and went by, but he brought it around the big man’s head, grabbed his own right wrist with his left hand and had a head-lock on Maloon. Instantly he threw his feet in the air and sat down hard, trying to break Maloon’s neck, but the big man was smart and went with him, and they fell together.

  On the ground Maloon was a demon. Lightning fast, he swung around and stabbed a stiff thumb for Fallon’s eye. Narrowly missing, the hard nail, deliberately scraped and filed until it had grown to unusual thickness and pointed as a weapon, ripped a gash in the side of Fallon’s face from the corner of his eye almost back to his ear.

  Wild with fear for his eyes, Fallon scrambled to get up, but Maloon got astride him and drew his big fist back for a killing blow. Fallon threw up his feet and caught Maloon across the face with his crossed legs, snapping him back.

  Torn loose from each other, both men scrambled to their feet, and Fallon ripped into Maloon, swinging with both fists, but Maloon stood his ground, punching hard and fast. The fists of both men were like clubs.

  Toe to toe for almost a minute, they slugged wildly, then broke apart as if on command, and circled. Fallon’s cut was bleeding badly; there was a huge welt under the other eye and a cut on his jaw. Maloon had an eye almost closed and a split lip.

  They were fighting with animal ferocity, Maloon like a cornered grizzly, Fallon like a mountain lion. Fallon was relentless, always moving, always crowding; Maloon circled warily, quick to counter. Both were shrewd fighters, terrible fighters; both were victors in many a riverside or waterfront brawl.

  They broke away from each other and each stepped to the side of the circle. Brennan doused Fallon with water, touched the bloody cut with the towel, dabbing away the blood. “Box him, man!” he whispered hoarsely. “That’s a brute you have there!”

  They came together, and Fallon feinted, then stabbed a left to the mouth. He slipped under a left and smashed a right to the ribs. He side-stepped as the big man threw a right, and countered swiftly, jolting Maloon. He started to side-step again, caught a right, and was knocked down.

  He dove away from a kick, came up to his knees, and as Maloon rushed him, swinging another kick, Fallon threw his weight against Maloon’s anchored leg, knocking him down.

  Maloon was up first, but Fallon swung his weight on his hands and kicked out behind him with both feet, kicking wais
t high in a move used by the French la savate fighters. Both feet caught Maloon coming in and knocked him, sprawling and surprised, into a heap.

  Fallon came up fast and swung a kick for Maloon’s chin that missed as the big head ducked, but catching it with a glancing blow that sent Maloon sprawling into the dust again.

  But Maloon was up and charging. His big head caught Fallon in the belly, smashing him back, every bit of wind knocked from him. Maloon’s charge carried him on over Fallon, and he scrambled to his feet and turned to find Fallon staggering weakly to his feet.

  Maloon rushed in, smashing a tremendous blow to Fallon’s head that started him down. The second blow caught him falling and lost some of its force, but it laid Fallon’s cheek open to the bone. He went down hard on his back and Maloon rushed in for the kill.

  Unable to get up, Fallon rolled to left and right, trying desperately to avoid the kicks that might, any one of them, kill him or break his skull. Staggering from the force of a kick, Maloon was carried on by him, and Fallon managed to get up. His lungs gasped for breath, every inhalation like a knife thrust into his chest. His head rang from the blows he had taken; he was punch-drunk with the fight. He had forgotten where he was or what was the issue at stake; he only knew that he must kill or be killed.

  He waited, hands hanging, and Spike Maloon came to him. The big man had been shocked by the skill of Fallon, and by the force of the blows he had taken, but now he was sure. He had his man.

  He was not only a big man, he was tremendously strong. Now he struck a light blow to the face, testing Fallon’s responses. He drew no return, but he was wary. He feinted a left, and then as Fallon struck out, he brushed the blow aside and knocked him down with his right. But Fallon, surprisingly, got up.

  Spike Maloon was suddenly worried. He had struck with his hardest punches, and he had knocked Fallon down … time and again. But he always got up. Now he must put him down and keep him down. This time he must put him on the ground, then jump on him and kick the life out of him, and quickly.