Novel 1963 - Fallon (v5.0) Read Free

it…here.”
    â€œThat’s all very well, mister.” It was the girl with the skeptical eyes. “But what has that to do with us?”
    Fallon held a mouthful of water for an instant before swallowing it. And he knew his horse would be desperate for more, having had not more than a few swallows.
    â€œDo I smell coffee? And bacon?” No use waiting for an invitation. “Perhaps we could discuss the situation over supper?”
    His strategy had only begun, and he needed time. He had his over-all plan, but there were ramifications to be worked out.
    He had already decided that these were no lambs ready for the fleecing, for they had little—at least, by his standards. A few supplies, some equipment, their weapons, the animals and wagons. He doubted they had cash to any amount; but one of the wagons had several packing cases that he could see.
    The younger ones still clung, no doubt, to a dream of golden riches from the mines. The older ones—he knew the signs—had long since begun to disbelieve. The 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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œPeople 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œI brought a stock of goods,” one man said suddenly. “Planned to keep store in California.”
    â€œGood! We will sell them at—” He caught himself just 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