Novel 1963 - Fallon (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour

He thought not. In any event, Brennan would have no reason to suspect him of anything, for Brennan had never, so far as Semple was aware, known anything about him.
    A lot of money was being spent. Semple could see the teamsters crowding to the bar, and the whiskey they bought was surprisingly good.
    Fallon did not seem to be anywhere around, and that worried him. If he was not here, where was he?
    Semple was sitting at the table when Joshua Teel entered. He had never seen Teel before, but he recognized the type. Oddly enough, Teel had been born in a log cabin not three-quarters of a mile from Semple’s home.
    After he finished his whiskey, Semple got up and left quietly. John Brennan, recorking a bottle, turned his eyes to watch him go. Luther Semple had not counted on Brennan’s good memory, or his interest in his customers.
    â€œTeel,” Brennan said, leaning on the bar, “you ever hear of Luther Semple?”
    â€œSemple? There were some Semples back home. The ones I knew of were a no-good outfit…though probably were others who were good folks.…Why?”
    â€œLute Semple just walked out of here, and I’d make a small bet he’s with Bellows. A few years back there were a lot of murders over on the Republican—buffalo-skinners murdered in camp…shot in the back. The camps were robbed, and at first it was laid to Indians, but then it was figured to be a well-organized gang.
    â€œSemple was around about that time, and a man he traveled with was caught with a rifle stolen off a murdered man. Semple disappeared—dropped clean out of sight.
    â€œLater, he was around Corinne. Back in those days it was a booming town on the Lake. If you see him around, keep an eye on him.”
    Joshua Teel left by the back door and cut around between the buildings. He stood in the shadows and surveyed the street with care. He saw Semple almost at once, a tall, slightly stooped man with drooping mustaches, a man who stood alone on the street, or bent to peer into the windows of the closed shops.
    Stepping out from the buildings, Teel loafed along in the shadows. He noted the horse tied at the hitch rail, a tall, clean-limbed bay with a rifle in the scabbard.
    It was after midnight when Semple mounted up and rode out of town. Listening, Teel heard no drum of hoofs on the bridge. Semple had gone down on the flat, then. Teel returned to his own place and turned in.

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    M ACON 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