Novel 1963 - Fallon (v5.0) (15 page)

Spike Maloon took the cigar from his mouth and squinted through the smoke.

“And if I do not?”

“We will run you out.”

“We?”
Spike Maloon picked up his cigar and glanced at it. “You would need help, of course. I never use a gun, so you'd have no excuse to use one on me.”

“You have been told. Now sell out, and get out.”

“Too bad,” Maloon said, running his eyes over Fallon. “I'd not have believed you were yellow. You stand up pretty well, good shoulders, good hands. I would have guessed you could take care of yourself. But you always have that gun to hide behind…and now you hide behind this ‘
we
' you speak of.

“But it is just as well. You'd have no more chance with me with your hands than I would with you with a gun.”

Fallon knew he was being baited, deliberately baited by a man who was positive of what he could do. There were others standing about, but he knew they expected nothing of him. No doubt there was not a man present who would not think him wise to leave things as they were.

Yet there was a lurking devil of Irish madness in him, and he looked at Spike Maloon with real pleasure. “It is a foolish thing you do,” he said cheerfully, “to challenge me in this way. You have a reputation as a fearful man with your fists, Spike Maloon, and when it comes to that, you have nothing else. Lose that, and you will have nothing at all. It is not a thing to be lightly risked.”

Spike Maloon's surprise did not show on his face, but surprised he was, and profoundly. He had it in mind to dare Fallon into a fight and then whip him within an inch of his life—destroy him, in fact. Yet Fallon's way of rising to the bait made him wary…could the man fight, then?

“I'll lose nothing. The man never lived who could handmuck a Maloon, but if you've a mind to fight, then stack your duds and grease your skids, for I shall tear down your meat-house!”

Suddenly, Macon Fallon felt good. He felt fine. This was a fitting thing, this last bit he could do for Red Horse, and for himself as well. For weeks now he had been a discontented man, with much wearing on his mind, and not always certain of the way to go. But in a fight, a slam-bang, knock-down and drag-out fist fight there were no complications. It was root-hog or die, and suddenly and with pleasure, he took off his gun belt.

In an instant the yell went up the street, “
Fight! Fight!
It's Fallon and Maloon!…Fight!”

And they came running—from all the corners of town they came running.

At the Yankee Saloon, John Brennan heard the cry and turned around so sharply that the ash fell from his cigar. “The man's daft!” he exclaimed. “He's bloody daft!”

Devol started to his feet to rush to the fight, but Teel's voice brought him up short. “Think, man!” he yelled. “Remember what we were told!”

Brennan grabbed up a bucket and caught up some water in it, and then filled a bottle with it, fresh and cold. With a towel over his arm, he started down the street, not forgetting the lock on the door he closed behind him.

Spike Maloon was stripped to the waist in the street and Maloon Fallon was carefully folding his coat over the hitch rail when Brennan arrived.

“He has forty pounds on you,” Brennan said, “as well as height and reach. Is there a way out, then?”

“Through him,” Fallon replied, grinning. “The way out is through him. The only way out is to tear him apart or beat him down, for he stands across my way.”

“Have at it, then, but he has a jaw like granite, I've heard. You'd best not waste your hands on it.”

It looked as if the whole town was there, and not the last was Ginia Blane, for she left the store almost running, slamming the door locked behind her. Something winked at the corner of her eye as she ran, some sudden flash of sunlight, but she gave it no thought.

Lute Semple was on the upper floor with a mirror, playing the flash against the far-off hills. A moment later there came an answering flash, and he put the mirror down and picked up his rifle, checking the load.

He glanced at the sun…how long would it take them? “Make it last, Fallon,” he whispered to himself. “Make it last!”

Macon Fallon stripped to the waist and accepted from Brennan a pair of driving gloves, into which he slipped his hands.

Maloon looked at them and laughed. “You're a fool, man,” he said. “They'll do you no good.”

“What is it?” Budge demanded. “To a finish?”

“How else?” Fallon said, and moved up to the scratch.

Maloon was a towering big man, his skin as white as a woman's, but he was muscled like a Hercules. His hands were huge, and the knuckles bore the scars of many battles. He put up his hands and Macon Fallon moved into him, a dancing devil in his eyes, in his heart a sudden wild urge to slaughter, to destroy.

He feinted with his left, then followed through with it and the knuckles of his fist smashed against Maloon's teeth and jolted the bigger man to his heels.

“So it's a boxer you are? It's the kind I like,” Maloon said. “I eat 'em alive!”

Fallon feinted again, swung hard with a right, and the fist that struck him came out of nowhere. It struck the side of his face like a bludgeon, and his feet flipped up and he hit the dust. Dazed, he looked up to see Maloon rushing in.

The big man dove at him and Fallon swung up a leg. His foot caught Maloon in the stomach, and he went on over Fallon to land in a heap. Fallon scrambled to his feet, still dazed, and saw Maloon turn head over heels like an acrobat and come to his feet.

“You've the makings of a fighter, lad,” Maloon said. “Too bad I shall have to destroy you!”

He stepped in quickly, hitting hard with both hands. Fallon partially blocked the first punch but caught the second on the jaw, and his head rang. A light seemed to burst and shower him with its fragments. He ducked inside another punch, drove his head against Maloon's chest, then ripped up with his skull in the vicious “Liverpool kiss” known to rough-and-tumble fighters everywhere.

Maloon's head was smashed back by the impact of the skull under the chin, and Fallon sprang in, swinging incredibly fast with both fists. The blows landed, rocking Maloon's big head with their power and staggering him. In close then, Fallon followed through with an elbow smash to the face and stepped back.

As he did so, a stone rolled under his foot and a smashing fist caught him in the mouth. He tasted blood, and a wild, fierce urge to kill came up within him. He tried to butt again, was smashed back by a hamlike fist, drove in swinging, and had both blows blocked.

He tried another, and his right missed and went by, but he brought it around the big man's head, grabbed his own right wrist with his left hand and had a head-lock on Maloon. Instantly he threw his feet in the air and sat down hard, trying to break Maloon's neck, but the big man was smart and went with him, and they fell together.

On the ground Maloon was a demon. Lightning fast, he swung around and stabbed a stiff thumb for Fallon's eye. Narrowly missing, the hard nail, deliberately scraped and filed until it had grown to unusual thickness and pointed as a weapon, ripped a gash in the side of Fallon's face from the corner of his eye almost back to his ear.

Wild with fear for his eyes, Fallon scrambled to get up, but Maloon got astride him and drew his big fist back for a killing blow. Fallon threw up his feet and caught Maloon across the face with his crossed legs, snapping him back.

Torn loose from each other, both men scrambled to their feet, and Fallon ripped into Maloon, swinging with both fists, but Maloon stood his ground, punching hard and fast. The fists of both men were like clubs.

Toe to toe for almost a minute, they slugged wildly, then broke apart as if on command, and circled. Fallon's cut was bleeding badly; there was a huge welt under the other eye and a cut on his jaw. Maloon had an eye almost closed and a split lip.

They were fighting with animal ferocity, Maloon like a cornered grizzly, Fallon like a mountain lion. Fallon was relentless, always moving, always crowding; Maloon circled warily, quick to counter. Both were shrewd fighters, terrible fighters; both were victors in many a riverside or waterfront brawl.

They broke away from each other and each stepped to the side of the circle. Brennan doused Fallon with water, touched the bloody cut with the towel, dabbing away the blood. “Box him, man!” he whispered hoarsely. “That's a brute you have there!”

They came together, and Fallon feinted, then stabbed a left to the mouth. He slipped under a left and smashed a right to the ribs. He side-stepped as the big man threw a right, and countered swiftly, jolting Maloon. He started to side-step again, caught a right, and was knocked down.

He dove away from a kick, came up to his knees, and as Maloon rushed him, swinging another kick, Fallon threw his weight against Maloon's anchored leg, knocking him down.

Maloon was up first, but Fallon swung his weight on his hands and kicked out behind him with both feet, kicking waist high in a move used by the French
la savate
fighters.

Both feet caught Maloon coming in and knocked him, sprawling and surprised, into a heap.

Fallon came up fast and swung a kick for Maloon's chin that missed as the big head ducked, but catching it with a glancing blow that sent Maloon sprawling into the dust again.

But Maloon was up and charging. His big head caught Fallon in the belly, smashing him back, every bit of wind knocked from him. Maloon's charge carried him on over Fallon, and he scrambled to his feet and turned to find Fallon staggering weakly to his feet.

Maloon rushed in, smashing a tremendous blow to Fallon's head that started him down. The second blow caught him falling and lost some of its force, but it laid Fallon's cheek open to the bone. He went down hard on his back and Maloon rushed in for the kill.

Unable to get up, Fallon rolled to left and right, trying desperately to avoid the kicks that might, any one of them, kill him or break his skull.

Staggering from the force of a kick, Maloon was carried on by him, and Fallon managed to get up. His lungs gasped for breath, every inhalation like a knife thrust into his chest. His head rang from the blows he had taken; he was punch-drunk with the fight. He had forgotten where he was or what was the issue at stake; he only knew that he must kill or be killed.

He waited, hands hanging, and Spike Maloon came to him. The big man had been shocked by the skill of Fallon, and by the force of the blows he had taken, but now he was sure. He had his man.

He was not only a big man, he was tremendously strong. Now he struck a light blow to the face, testing Fallon's responses. He drew no return, but he was wary. He feinted a left, and then as Fallon struck out, he brushed the blow aside and knocked him down with his right. But Fallon, surprisingly, got up.

Spike Maloon was suddenly worried. He had struck with his hardest punches, and he had knocked Fallon down…time and again. But he always got up.

Now he must put him down and keep him down. This time he must put him on the ground, then jump on him and kick the life out of him, and quickly.

The watchers, hoarse from shouting, were silent now, shocked by the ferocity of the battle they watched. It was like two primeval men fighting far away in the past…like two utterly savage cavemen.

Maloon moved in. He had fought hard, but he had his second wind, and Fallon was finished. He struck out with a left…it landed. He struck again…it landed. He struck again…and suddenly his left arm was seized and he was thrown over Fallon's back with a flying mare. He hit the ground with a thud and Fallon fell upon him, a knee driving into his solar plexus as Fallon came down, then that same knee smashing up to hit his chin.

A terrible light burst in Maloon's skull. He fought himself free, and got up. His jaw was broken, smashed at the hinges and hanging free.

His hands…he had to get Fallon in his hands. Curling a bulky arm around his jaw, he charged to get close, swinging with his right fist.

Fallon brought up hard against the hitch rail and Maloon's big hand grasped his windpipe. Fallon tried to get at Maloon's eyes but the big man ducked his head low.

Lifting a boot, Fallon smashed down with the side of the boot against Maloon's shinbone, the heel driving down hard on Maloon's foot. But the bigger man clung grimly to his grip on the throat.

Fallon smashed up hard against Maloon's elbow, the elbow of the arm that was gripping his throat, and at the same time he reached over with his right hand and dug his fingers into the palm of the gripping hand. Retaining his hold, he ripped the hand free from his throat and, turning quickly, gripping the hand and pushing down on the elbow, he sent Maloon stumbling, bent over and head down. He fell, and lay still, face down in the dust.

Macon Fallon staggered toward him, then his knees folded and he fell. He tried to get up, and he fell again, and the last sound he heard was a rifle shot.

A rifle shot…and then another.

He fought his way out of a fog of unconsciousness and strained to get up. A gentle hand touched his shoulder and a voice whispered, “Lie still.”

He relaxed slowly, trying to figure out where he was. It was dark, with strange faint streaks of light off to one side.

The voice…that had been Ginia. She was here with him.

Then he remembered the fight…but what happened after that? There had been a shot—after that he remembered nothing.

“Ginia?”

“Ssh!”

He whispered. “Where are we? What happened?”

“We were attacked…a lot of men on horseback. All of a sudden, just as your fight ended, they just came down out of nowhere, and there was a lot of shooting.” She stopped, listening. Then she added, “We're under the hotel.”

There was, he recalled, a sort of hollow under the back of the hotel because it was built at a spot where the ground fell away behind it. The back of the hotel was actually resting on an eight-foot stone foundation.