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

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.
    â€œGold,” 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 killed the last men to leave the town. Nine men had died in that sudden raid.
    â€œI 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 water-course, 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.”
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œActually,” 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.”
    â€œAlso”—this was a sudden inspiration—“in a town so long abandoned there