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harm. You made a widow and three orphans."
"You murdered him,"Hamilton said. "That there was murder."
Al Damon backed off. He was suddenly sick inside, and he knew he was about to
throw up. He had to get off the street before that happened. Abruptly, he
turned into an alleyway.
He had killed a man.
He half fell against the building and was sick. How could he know the man was
carrying a useless gun? The man had shoved him ... well, it seemed like that,
anyway.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went around behind the
buildings.
He wanted to go home, but the thought of his mother's eyes stopped that idea.
Instead, he climbed over the corral bars and went into the stable, where he
crawled back on the freshly cut hay and put his back against the wall. The
staring eyes of the dying man and those frightful sobs stayed with him. He
cowered there, and finally he slept.
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When he awoke it was dark. He listened for some sound, but heard nothing. He
crawled out of the hay and carefully brushed himself off; and then he thought
of his gun, and he reloaded the empty chamber.
Well, suppose he did kill that stranger? He asked for it, didn't he? He came
barreling out of that door and almost knocked him down. Why, when it came to
that, he had acted in self-defense. Looked like he was being jumped on how was
he to know?
He looked down at his gun. He had killed a man. He could file a notch on it
now. The momentary twinge he had felt was stifled by a growing pride. It
wasn't everybody could say that... that they'd killed a man.
When he got back on the street he hitched his gun a little further forward.
All right... so let them talk. If they got tough with him he'd ...
The street was empty. Lights shone from a few windows. It was after
suppertime and he was hungry. He went into the restaurant.
Two strangers were there, and both got up very pointedly and walked toward
the door, leaving their food. Budge came from the kitchen with coffee just as
they were leaving. "Hey, here's your coffee!" he called.
"Forget it," one man said. "We'd rather go hungry."
Al Damon felt the blood rising to his face. Should he call them on that? He
started to turn, uncertain as to what he should do, when Budge spoke.
"Get out," he said coldly, "and don't come in here again. We don't serve your
kind."
Al hesitated, appalled and angry. Budge stooped and took a double-barreled
shotgun from under the counter. "Get going," he said. "If it was up to me,
there'd be a hanging party tonight."
Al walked out onto the street. They couldn't talk that way to him! Just
wait he'd show them!
He needed a horse above all things, he needed a horse. To hell with them! He
would ride and join Bellows!
But where to go now? He still had no desire to go home, and he suspected the
feeling evidenced by Budge would be present almost everywhere. And then he
thought of the Yankee Saloon.
Fallon would probably be there. He might not be, but if he was, it was high
time they met, for now they would meet on a new footing. Fallon must respect
him now. Moreover, Brennan was a man who censured no man. Even in the short
time since his arrival in Red Horse, his philosophy had become known. John
Brennan turned no man from his bar.
Al had taken only a few steps when a voice stopped him. It was LuteSemple .
"You're pretty fast with that gun, Al. I saw that. You slicked it out mighty
fast."
Al Damon shrugged, standing wide-legged on the walk. "He came for me," he
said.
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"What I hear,"Semple said dryly. "When we heard about it, we figured it was
Fallon you'd killed." He paused to let the idea sink in. "Could have been, you
know. The same way. It would work on him better than on Bates."
"Who's Bates?"
"The man you killed." LuteSemple waited for a moment, and then added: "He was
a well-liked man. He'd two brothers back inIllinois that set store by him."
"What's that to me?"
"Youain't used to it yet, kid. Why, those brothers, they'll comehuntin ' you.
You'll have to keep a sharp eye out from now on."
Al shifted his feet uneasily. "What did you mean, it would work on Fallon
easier than Bates?"
"It's an easy thing to let a man bump into you or, if there's nobody around,
to let on the other man drew first. That Fallon ... he doesn't have many
friends.
"Bates was nobody. Fallon, now, that's a different story." LuteSemple paused.
"Bellows, he's all forlettin ' TandyHerren come into town, and Tandy wants to
come. Only I figured you should have your chance."
Semplestruck a match to the stub of a cigar. "Far as that goes, we could give
you a mite of help. Not that you'd need help, but insurance that don't
costnothin ' is another thing."
"Where would you be?"
"That store across from the Yankee's got an upper story with nobody in it. A
couple of us with Winchesters could come up the back stairs and we could lay
there. When Fallon came out the door, you could bump him and draw, and when
you did, we'd cut down on him from the window. Then we'd down the steps and
hightail it."
Macon Fallon was at breakfast at his usual table in the Yankee Saloon when
Wiley Pollock came in. Pollock was a tall, strapping young man with a genial
expression that masked an underlying seriousness.
"Are you Mr. Fallon?" Pollock asked. "They tell me you have some mining
claims for sale."
Fallon allowed no hint of his elation to come into his expression. "Well,
let's put it this way. I have some claims. I won't say they're for sale. On
the other hand, I was never much of a man to dig, so if the price was right I
might talk about it."
He refilled his coffee cup and then pushed another cup toward Pollock. "Are
you a miner?"
"Not exactly," Pollock replied, "but I came west to mine, not farm." He
looked sharply at Fallon. "Nobody seems to be mining ... why?"
"My fault. A town isn't built by people who want to get rich overnight. I
wanted some business going here first; but personally," he added, "I have been
doing some development and exploration on my claims."
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They talked for half an hour, and then together they went up the hill to the
mine.
Wiley Pollock looked around thoughtfully. It was obvious that some work had
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