Fallon - A Novel by Louis L'Amour

Author:Louis L'Amour
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-04-12T14:41:20+00:00

Macon Fallon had found shelter for his horse among the boulders. Outside the

canyon mouth there was no movement. His horse had drunk, and was cropping at

some grass growing in the space between some of the higher boulders. Fallon

settled himself down for a long stay, and waited for the sun to go down.

Could the Utes get around behind him in any way? It was possible. His only way

out was down the canyon toward Red Horse, for they blocked the opening before

him. Yet suppose there was a way down from the cliffs above? Supposing even two

or three could circle around, slip down the cliff, and lie in wait for him?

The sun declined, seemed to hesitate, then vanished. It was twilight within the

canyon now, although still bright out on the basin. The Utes knew that when

darkness came he would ride away down the canyon to safety, yet they made no

further attempt to push the attack. That meant they were either waiting for

darkness to attack—which not many Indians liked to do—or they had gotten around

behind him and were not worried.

Suddenly, the black horse's head came up. His head up, ears pricked, he looked

off down the canyon. Something was down there, behind him.

Carefully, Fallon replaced the fired cartridges in his Winchester, and waited.

When darkness came, he took a last drink at the water, then mounted up. Slipping

the Winchester into the scabbard, he drew his .44 pistol.

Riding out quietly from the boulders, he turned his horse back toward the valley

from which he had come. This, he hoped, they would not expect, for he would be

riding away from safety.

The sand made little sound as he walked the horse along. The end of the canyon

was like a gigantic door ... beyond was the valley, the star-lit skies. He had

ridden sixty yards out of the canyon mouth before they discovered him.

He smelled smoke, and at the same time he saw an Indian rear up from the ground

and start toward him. Deliberately, he dropped the muzzle of his gun on the same

dark figures, and fired.

He saw the jerk of the Indian's body as the bullet struck, and at the same

moment he touched the black with the spurs and was off, riding at a dead run

into the wide-open spaces of the valley.

Could he find the other trail? At night it would look different, but long ago he

had cultivated the habit of all wise travelers in wild country, of turning to

look back. Faced from the opposite direction, a trail can look vastly different,

and if compelled to retrace one's trail such a precaution is essential.

He rode at a dead run for a quarter of a mile or so, then slowed and turned at

right angles, making for the valley's eastern side. He found the gap, started

toward it, then recalled the steep trail, and mounted to the top of the cliffs

above the valley. Leaning forward, he peered above to his right, searching for

the notch in the rock, and hoping he could choose the right one.

Here, in the stifl, cool night, he could smell the dusty grass and the sage.

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