Noon collected the guns from the dead men, and packed them outside. He collected their horses and tied the dead men on them. He pinned on each one a paper which read:
He tried to dry-gulch
Ruble Noon
Then he turned the horses loose.
The wounded man raised up on an elbow. “What was them papers you pinned on them?”
“It makes no difference,” Noon answered, and sat down. “Now you and I are going to have a little talk.”
The gunman looked at him warily. He was a grizzled, hard-faced man with a broken nose. “About what?”
“About who hired you.”
“An’ supposin’ I ain’t of a mind to?”
Ruble Noon shrugged. “I’ll just pull out those plugs I put in you and I won’t tell anybody where you are. You might manage to walk a mile, but I doubt it. You’d start bleeding again and before dark you’d be buzzard meat.”
The gunman lay back and closed his eyes. “Mister, I don’t know who it was. These boys an’ me was in a joint…the Acme Saloon, it was. There was a gent come in we knew as Peterson. It wasn’t his real name, but that’s of no matter. Anyway, he said we could pick up fifty dollars apiece and he wanted five of us, for a little shooting.
“He said this was a known man, and there’d be no worry about the law if we done it. This here Peterson had been in the Rangers at one time, and he knowed a lot of folks around about town. We taken his word for it. We’d seen him talkin’ with some high-powered men around El Paso, like A. J. Fountain, the Mannings, Magoffin, and the like of that.
“He laid it out for us, but all the time we knowed he was talkin’ for somebody else and not for himself. You see, this Peterson knowed a lot of folks on both sides of the fence, and he’d been a sort of go-between before this. If a man wanted to sell stolen cattle, Peterson could always put him in the way of it.
“Fifty dollars now, that’s near two months’ wages for a cowhand, so we taken him up on it. Who paid the money to him, I don’t know.”
Ruble Noon considered. The man seemed to be telling the truth, and the story sounded right.
“All right,” he said. “I’ve got your horse outside. I’m going to load you up and take you out a ways. When I get you within easy distance of El Paso I’ll turn you loose.”
He stood for a moment thinking about Peterson. It was unlikely that he could make Peterson talk, for the man sounded like a tough one. He had served in the Rangers, and had probably gone bad after leaving them…or been kicked out, as was often the case if they found they had a bad egg in the basket.
When those dead men came into town tied on their horses, Peterson would be among the first to hear of it, and he would surely carry the news to the man who had hired him. By watching Peterson, Ruble Noon might locate his man.
Now he loaded the wounded man on his horse and led the animal away from the deserted ranch. When they were well on the road to El Paso, he let the horse and rider go.
He swung off the trail into the mesquite and circled for low ground, riding toward El Paso by the best hidden route he could find.
Had he been here before? It seemed likely that he had. Should he let himself go, hoping that hidden memory would take him to the right places?
But those places might now be the worst ones for him, and any man he saw might be an enemy. Or he might be wanted by the law.
He rode on cautiously, but with foreboding. His head was aching again, and he was very tired. The sun was hot, and he wanted to lie down in the shade to rest, but there was no time.
He was riding toward something, he did not know what. The only thing he was sure of now was that he was Ruble Noon, a man feared, a man who hired his gun to kill, a man he did not want to be.
Whatever had made him what he was he did not know; he knew only that he wanted to be that no longer. The trouble was, he had to be. To cease to be what he was now would be to die…and to leave that girl back there alone, and without defenses.
He rode on in the hot afternoon, and the streets of the town opened before him.
CHAPTER 8
AS HE ENTERED the town a street on his right branched away from the main street, and he turned into it. When he had ridden only a few hundred yards he saw a large wooden stable with doors opened wide. An old Mexican sat in front of it. There were a water trough and a pump close by.
He drew up. “You got room for another horse?” he asked.
The Mexican looked at him. “This is not a livery stable, señor,” he said, “but if you wish—”
Ruble Noon swung to the ground. “It’s the first one I saw,” he said, “and I’m dead beat. How much for the horse and a place to clean up?”
“Fifty cents?”
“That’ll do.” He followed the Mexican into the stable and was shown a stall. He led the roan in, then went up to the loft and forked hay down the chute into the manger.
When he came down he gave the Mexican fifty cents, and followed him to the water trough. The Mexican handed him a tin basin, and he pumped water into it and washed his face and hands, and then combed his hair. Using his hat, he whipped the dust from his pants and his boots.
When he turned to go the old man said, “You wish to sleep here, señor? There is a cot in there.” He gestured toward a room in the corner of the barn. “And no bugs.”
“How much?”
The Mexican smiled. “Fifty cents.”
“All right.”
He turned to walk away and the man spoke again. “Be careful, señor.”
He stopped, his eyes searching the old man’s face. “Why do you say that?”
The man shrugged. “It is a wild town. The railroads have brought many strangers. There have been shootings.”
“Thanks,” Noon said.
The sun had slipped from sight, and with its passing a desert coolness came. He walked to the next street, and saw the sign of the Coliseum, a saloon and variety theater. He avoided it…from somewhere he seemed to have the impression that the Coliseum and Jack Doyle’s were the most popular places in town.
In a small restaurant farther along the street he ordered frijoles, tortillas, and roast beef, and drank a glass of beer. Over his coffee he sat watching the lights come on. Men came and went as he waited there. Having eaten, he felt better, and the ache dulled, but he was strangely on edge, not at all as he wanted to feel.
He got up to pay, and a small man eating at a table near him turned suddenly to look at him…and stared.
Ruble Noon paid his bill and went outside, but he felt uneasy. When he had walked a few yards he glanced back, and saw that the man was standing in the restaurant door, staring after him.
He turned the corner, walked a block, and crossed the street. Glancing back he saw no one, but he felt worried. That man was interested in him, and recognized him perhaps. The sooner he did what he had come to do and left town, the better.
He saw the Acme Saloon ahead of him…and then he saw the sign of Dean Cullane’s office. It was on the second floor, reached by an outside stairway. The windows were dark and the place was empty-looking.
He paused and made a show of wiping his face while he glanced up and down the street. No one was in sight, and he went up the steps swiftly. At the landing he knocked, and when there was no response he tried the door. It was locked.
He looked down, but there was no one on the street. He drew his knife, slipped the point into the lock, and worked the bolt back, then he pushed with his shoulder. The door was ill-fitting, and it opened easily. He stepped inside and pushed it to behind him.
He stood still…listening.
Outside there was only the distant tin-panny sound of a piano. He waited, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light that came in through the windows.
He saw that the room contained a rolltop desk, a swivel chair, another cha
ir, and a leather settee. Under a shelf filled with books there was also a table covered with papers. A brass spittoon was on the floor.
A door stood open just a crack, and in that crack he saw a gun muzzle. Even as he saw it, he realized that the something that had disturbed him since entering the room was the faint smell of perfume mingled with the smell of stale tobacco.
“There’s no use of your shooting me,” he said. “There would be nothing gained. And besides”—he played a hunch—“you’d have to explain what you were doing here.”
The door opened wider, and he could see a girl standing there, the gun still held level. “Who are you?” she asked.
He smiled into the darkness, and some of the smile was in his tone when he said, “I didn’t ask you that.”
“All right then—what do you want?”
“To put some pieces together.”
“What was Dean Cullane to you?” she asked.
“A name—no more than that. Only somebody shot at me, and a thing like that makes a man curious.”
“Dean Cullane would not shoot anyone—at least, I don’t think he would.”
“We never know, do we? Sometimes the most unexpected people will shoot. You even have a gun yourself.”
“But I would shoot, mister. I have shot before this.”
“And killed?”
“I didn’t have time to look. Anyway, Dean Cullane did not shoot you, so who did? And why are you here?”
“The man who shot at me was paid to do it. He is a man who does such things for money.”
“Ruble Noon!” she exclaimed.
“Is he the only one? I have heard there are a dozen here in El Paso, or over in Juarez, who would kill for hire.”
By now he realized that she was young and appeared to be attractive, and she was well gotten up, but not for the street…at least not for El Paso streets at this hour. And not for the vicinity of the Acme Saloon at any hour.
“Whatever you are here for,” the girl said, “you have no business to be in this office. You forced the door.”
“And you had a key? Perhaps Dean Cullane had a reason to give you a key.”
“He did not give it to me, and it does not mean what you think. Dean Cullane was my brother.”
“Was?”
“He is dead…he was killed…murdered.”
“I am sorry. I didn’t know that. If you are his sister you have a right to be here.” He reached toward the kerosene lamp. “Shall we have some light?”
“No! Please don’t! He would kill me, too.”
“Who?”
“Ruble Noon…the man who killed Dean.”
He held himself very still, listening for something within him, but nothing spoke to him….Had he actually killed Dean Cullane?
“I doubt if he would kill a woman,” he said. “It isn’t done, you know.”
He removed the lamp chimney, struck a match, and held it to the wick. As he did so, she lowered the gun, and when he replaced the chimney, they looked across the room at each other.
He saw a slender girl, with auburn hair and dark eyes; at least, in this light they seemed to be dark. She was dressed for a party, but had a dark cloak over her arm. She was lovely…a real beauty.
Her eyes fell to his sleeve. “Where did you get that coat?” Her voice was suddenly cold. “That is my brother’s coat, Dean’s coat. I was with him when he chose the material.”
“It is? All I knew was that it was not mine. I must have taken it by mistake.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.” He touched his head. “I was struck on the head. I believe I tried to escape from somewhere after I was struck, and I must have caught up a coat from where mine was hanging.”
“Where was this?”
“Northwest of here…quite a way off….You spoke of Ruble Noon. Did your brother know him?”
“No, but he was trying to discover who he was, what he was. I do not know why, but I believe Dean had some information that related to Ruble Noon in some way. He told me he had to see him, to talk to him, and he seemed to think he knew where to find him.”
“You are dressed for a party?” he said inquiringly.
“Yes. I came from one at the home of friends, and I must get back.” But she made no move to go. She was giving him all her attention. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Stay here and look.”
“For what?”
“Ma’am, somebody shot at me. Before they try it again I want to know why they’re shooting. I picked up Dean Cullane’s coat in the room where I got shot at, or somewhere close by. Dean Cullane is my only clue…except one other.”
“What is that?”
“I know who shot at me.” He paused. “Miss Cullane, what do you know about the Rafter D—Tom Davidge’s outfit?”
She hesitated before replying. That she knew something was obvious, and apparently she was wondering whether to tell him of it or not. “I know nothing about the ranch,” she said finally. “I did know Fan, Tom Davidge’s daughter. We went to school together.”
He was getting nowhere. And he did not have much time, for without doubt the people who had sent men gunning for him knew he was in El Paso. They would also have an idea of where to look for him.
As he talked his eyes had been taking in the room, locating possible hiding places for whatever it was that he wanted.
“We must go,” she said suddenly. “They will be wondering where I am.”
“I’ll stay,” he said.
She smiled at him. “Of course, I cannot demand that you accompany me, but would a gentleman allow a lady to walk the streets of El Paso alone at this hour?”
He shrugged. “I hope I am a gentleman, ma’am, but I have a distinct impression that you got here by yourself…and you are armed.”
Her eyes narrowed a little as the skin tightened around them. This young lady had a temper—and she was used to having her own way.
“If you stay here,” she said, “I shall have you arrested. You broke in here, like a thief. I suspect you are a thief.”
He had an idea she meant what she said, and he responded, “All right. I will walk you back to the party.”
He took her key to lock the door, but she held out her hand for it and he had to return it. They went down the steps and along the street, then around a corner and down another street. He could hear the music and laughter before they saw the house.
It was a white frame house with a lot of gingerbread decorations around the eaves. He went to the steps with her and stopped, about to turn away.
“Peg? Peg Cullane! Who’s that with you?”
A girl came down the steps. She was shorter than Peg Cullane, and was blonde and pretty and plump. She looked up at him and laughed.
“Leave it to Peg! She’s the only girl in town who could step out for a breath of fresh air and come back with the handsomest man in town!…Well? Are you coming in?”
“Sorry,” Ruble Noon said. “I have to be going. I was just walking Miss Cullane back to the dance.”
“Oh, no, you don’t! Not without at least one dance with me. Peg, aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“My name is Mandrin,” he said, “Jonas Mandrin.”
“And I am Stella Mackay…just Stella to you! Let’s all go in.”
A gray-haired man was standing outside on the lawn smoking a cigar. Ruble Noon saw him look up quickly when he said he was Jonas Mandrin…and then look again sharply.
Mandrin? It was another of those names that had come from nowhere, involuntarily. Jonas Mandrin…it was not a usual name—like Tom Jones or John Smith, not the sort of name a man might be expected to come up with suddenly. He might, without meaning to at all, be giving a clue to his identity.
The music was playing, and he found hi
mself inside dancing with Stella, but he watched Peg Cullane. She was not dancing. He saw her go across the room to a tall young man and speak to him. At once the man’s eyes sought him out, and then the man went to two others in the room, and all stood together, watching him.
Trouble…he would be a fool not to see it coming. Stella was talking gaily, and he was replying….What was he doing here, she was asking. He heard himself saying he was looking for ranch property, wanting to raise horses.
He finished the dance with Stella, danced with another girl, and had stopped briefly at one side of the room. The man he had seen smoking on the lawn came up and spoke to him quietly. He was a fine-looking elderly man, with clean-cut features and a scholarly face.
“Young man,” he said, “if you want to live out the evening you had better slip away.” He paused for a moment. “The gate at the end of the garden is open. Go through it to the house next door. The side door. On the other side of the house the side door is open. Go in and sit down in that room, but do not make a light.”
“Is that a trap?”
The old man smiled. “No, Jonas Mandrin, it is not. It is my home, and I am Judge Niland. You will be safe in my house.” All this had been in a low tone.
The music started again, and he danced around the room through the crowd. When near the door to the kitchen, and opposite the three young men, he whispered a quick good-bye to the girl with whom he was dancing and slipped out through the kitchen. Then he was running.
It was dark outside. He did not open the gate, but touched a hand lightly on the top and vaulted. He landed and, skirting a huge cottonwood, found himself in the Judge’s yard. He went to the door on the other side and it opened under his hand and he stepped into the darkness of the room.
The air was close; the room was still except for the ticking of the clock. Only faintly could he hear music from the house he had left. He touched a chair, and sat down.
A moment later he heard running feet, and the sound of somebody swearing. Standing up, he leaned over and flipped the lock on the door.
He heard the steps come close, and a hand trying the door. Then someone said, low-voiced, “Not there, you fool! That’s the Judge’s house!” And then they were gone.
The Man Called Noon (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 7
