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Fallon by Louis L'Amourrelease info
Fallon
by
Louis L'Amour



1 2 3 4 5 6
About the Author



Chapter I
Macon Fallon was a stranger to the town of Seven Pines, and fortunately for him
he was a stranger with a fast horse.
In the course of an eventful life, Macon Fallon had become a connoisseur of
western hospitality, and knew when a limit had been reached. Hence, when an
escorting party, complete with rope, arranged to conduct him to the vicinity of
a large cottonwood where the evening's festivities would be concluded, he wasted
no time on formalities, but promptly departed the premises.
The moment chosen was, of course, appropriate to the situation. The
self-appointed posse were as confident as a few drinks could make them, but were
totally unaware of the quality of the man they escorted.
One of the riders had lagged a little, and at that moment they came abreast of
an opening in the brush that walled the trail. Fallon rode an excellent cutting
horse that could turn on a dime. The black horse went through the opening with a
bound and, sensing the urgency of its rider, took off on a dead run.
No horse Fallon had ever seen could catch that black of his in under half a
mile, and by the time that distance lay behind, Fallon was prepared to resort to
evasive tactics. The black had staying quality as well as an initial burst of
speed; and the posse, less superbly mounted, fell rapidly behind.
Unfortunately, by the time the opportunity for escape was offered, only one
direction remained to Fallon ... and westward lay a waterless waste ... or one
that was relatively so. The nearest water hole was thirty miles off, but on
Fallon's one previous visit the water there had been plentiful and good. With a
safe lead, and some tracks purposely left to indicate that he had circled the
town, he settled down for a long ride.
At thirty miles, with his throat parched for a drink, the water hole proved to
be a bed of dried, cracked mud.
At forty-two miles, with his horse stumbling, the creek was a dusty trough, and
Macon Fallon was a man in trouble.
Somewhere behind was a posse of irate citizens who had by this time found his
trail. They would be coming along with filled canteens and could afford to
ignore the water holes. To the best of his knowledge, which admittedly was not
thorough, the next seventy miles offered no water.
Dust sifted over him, and sweat etched a fine pattern of lines upon his lean,
ruggedly handsome if somewhat saturnine features. He dismounted, talked to the
horse to reassure it, then walked on, leading the horse. He was a man naturally
considerate of horses, but he also knew that in this country if his horse should
die, his own death was only a matter of time.