Novel 1963 - Fallon (v5.0) Read Free Page A

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    â€œYou 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.
    â€œWhether 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.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œThe 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 saddle-bags 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.
    â€œMy 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.”
    â€œLeave that to me. There will be order in the town.”
    â€œAll 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