Novel 1963 - Fallon (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Read Free Book Online Page B

had begun. The Missourian listened, his eyes straying from the flat to Fallon’s face from time to time.
    â€œYou shape like a gamblin’ man,” he said at last, “but you talk like a man who’d made hay. I’ll look at it.”
    The following day, Fallon went to the wash and worked the entire day, sunrise to sunset, on his dam. At the beginning, one would hardly have recognized it as a dam, for what he was doing was building a barrier that would catch other debris and pile it up. Nobody from the town came to see what he was doing, and none offered to help.
    On the day that marked the end of the second week, four wagons stopped and business was brisk. One of the wagons pulled up at the Yankee Saloon. It was followed by another wagon driven by a burly Negro.
    The driver of the first wagon came into the saloon, a stocky man with a shock of prematurely gray hair and the beginnings of a paunch. He had a smooth, rosy-cheeked face and keen blue eyes.
    â€œBrennan’s the name,” he announced. “I’ll have a whiskey.”
    As Fallon poured the glass, Brennan added, “I’m a saloon man myself. Maybe I could offer some suggestions.”
    â€œI’m sure you could,” Fallon replied dryly, “so let me offer one. Don’t drink the whiskey.”
    Brennan glanced at him, then tasted the drink. Carefully, as if fearful it might explode, he replaced the glass on the bar. “Unusual flavor,” he said politely. “I don’t believe I recognize the brand.”
    â€œIndian whiskey. My own version.”
    â€œIf you don’t mind, I’ll have a glass of water.”
    He tasted the water, then put the glass down, smiling. “Limestone water, the purest there is…just like from the hills of Bourbon County, Kentucky. My friend”—he gestured toward the water—“if you really want to make good whiskey, there’s the first essential…good water.”
    Fallon walked around the bar. “Mr. Brennan, I don’t want to make whiskey. I don’t want to operate a saloon. I’ll supply the water and whatever equipment you need, and I’ll handle the gambling, if there is any. You operate the saloon and we split fifty-fifty…how’s that?”
    Brennan tasted the water again. “Sixty-forty,” he said. “I have operated saloons in New York, Richmond, Louisville, Abilene, Leadville, Corinne, and Silver Reef. I know my business.”
    Fallon looked at him, then out across the flat. Brennan was perhaps thirty-five, and a man who appreciated the good things of life, if Fallon was any judge. Yet here he was, though the towns showed a steady progression westward…why?
    â€œYou’ve made a deal. Take over as of now. Tomorrow we’ll scout the location for a still.”
    â€œYou aren’t going to ask any questions?”
    â€œIf you’re the man who can handle the job, I want you. If you are not, out you go.”
    â€œI killed a man,” Brennan said.
    â€œIf the Bellows outfit decide to raid us,” Fallon said bluntly, “you may have to kill several.”
    â€œThis is my town,” Brennan said quietly, “and I’m glad to be home.”
    Brennan, among other things, had three barrels of whiskey in his second wagon. He also had a case of claret and approximately a hundred empty beer bottles. What else he carried was not immediately obvious. They divided the upstairs into two apartments and Brennan moved into one of them.
    Slowly, business picked up. Several wagons came by, and once a whole wagon train drove in and camped the night on the upper flat. Fallon was always around, but each day he worked some upon the dam. Twice, Joshua Teel joined him, bringing his mules to help, and slowly the dam grew.

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    I T WAS MIDAFTERNOON, and Fallon was sitting at a table in the saloon drinking coffee when Al Damon came in. He walked to the bar and lifted a boot to the brass