“I do not know him, señora,” he said, “but if he is your husband I think he is a good man. He wouldn’t dare be anything else.”
She laughed.
An idea came to him. “You have an old sombrero? And serape?”
“Si.” She caught on at once. “You wish to use them?”
At his nod she left the room and returned with a battered sombrero, a serape that had seen better days, and some fringed leggings. “Your Spanish is good, señor. Tell them you are from Sonora.”
The pinto she brought was gaunt, the saddle was old, but they would suffice. He had trimmed his beard to a mustache and sideburns, and when he left he wore the sombrero pulled low.
He trotted the horse toward the town, following the trail. When he reached there he tied the horse at the hitching rail and went into a Mexican saloon for a beer.
The Mexican who came to the table hit a careless swipe with the bar rag. He was fat, and one eye was covered with a black patch. The only others in the saloon were a peon who slept in a corner, and a man with his head on a table.
He said quietly, “Have you seen the horse I ride, señor?”
“I have seen it.”
The voice of the saloonkeeper was low, guarded. “What is it you wish, señor? Only the beer?”
“The beer and a trade. I wish to trade the pinto you see for two horses—fast horses. I have no friends here, amigo, and many men search for me, but Señora Lebo was a friend to me and I would be a friend to her.”
“If you mean what I think, you are loco.”
“The beer, and two horses…pronto.”
The saloonkeeper went away and came back with the beer. Then he left his apron on the bar and walked out. He was gone for some time.
Ruble Noon finished his beer, and when the saloonkeeper returned he ordered another. Out in front a Mexican boy was stripping the gear from his pinto and placing it on a grulla, a mouse-colored horse with a white nose and three white stockings. A saddled horse stood beside it. There was a rifle in the scabbard and a gun belt on the pommel. Behind each saddle was a blanket roll.
Ruble Noon finished his second beer and went over to the bar. He placed money on the bar, but the saloonkeeper waved it away. “Miguel Lebo is my friend,” he said. “But think what you do,” he added.
“They hunt me already,” Noon replied, “and I think I can use a good man where I go. Answer me these questions. How many are now in the office at the jail? How far away does the nearest officer live? Who would give the alarm quickest?”
“Only one man is at the jail, and he has nothing against Miguel. The nearest officer is a deputy marshal who is four blocks down the street, asleep. As to the alarm, I think no one will give it but the keeper of the store over there. He doesn’t like Mexicans—only our business.”
“Give him business then. Get five Mexicans to go in and buy.” He placed two twenty-dollar gold pieces on the bar. “Give them these. Let them buy what they need, and keep what they buy, only keep him busy.”
The saloonkeeper looked at him steadily. “You take a great risk…why?”
“The señora welcomed me, fed me, offered me a horse. She said her husband was a good man, and I do not believe that good men should hang.”
“It was a big rancher’s jury. Miguel owns a water hole…he has owned it for many years. His people came with the first settlers to Socorro.”
“He shall go free.”
Ruble Noon went to the door and studied the street. It was early evening. Most men were at their suppers, and those who would soon fill the saloons and gambling houses had not yet arrived. A few men were talking, some read their newspapers.
He looked at the horses and saw they were good. He turned. “Adios, amigo.”
He walked up the street to the jail, opened the door, and stepped in. There was a rolltop desk in the room, a table, and a chair near the stove. The weather was warm, but the man there sat near it for convenience. He was chewing tobacco, and the open door of the stove was his target.
“Howdy, Mex, what can I do for you?” he said.
“I have heard you are a good man,” Ruble Noon answered, “and not unfriendly to your prisoner.”
“Fact is Lebo’s a good man, but I’m his jailer and there’ll be no monkey business.”
“Indeed, no,” Ruble Noon said, and he produced a gun. “A kindly man I would not wish to shoot.”
The jailer looked at the gun, and he looked at the eyes that looked into his. He said, “You’re no Mex. Who are you?”
“Ruble Noon,” Noon said quietly. “Just tell them it was Ruble Noon who came. And add that Señora Lebo is not to be disturbed…nor her water hole. Tell them it was Ruble Noon who said it.”
CHAPTER 12
MIGUEL LEBO SQUATTED on his heels across the fire from Ruble Noon and sipped his coffee. Their camp was in a hollow screened by pines, well up the slope of the mountain, but by taking three steps they were in position to overlook the valley below, now bathed in moonlight.
“I thank you again, amigo, but I wonder why you have done this thing.”
Noon shrugged. “Impulse, I guess. Your wife is a good woman, and she helped me when I needed help…and I do not like your enemies.”
“Only that?”
“You needed a chance for life. I needed help.”
“Ah?”
“You are a good man with a gun.”
“I have had troubles, and men came against me.”
“I want you to go to Colorado,” Noon said. “There is a ranch where men hide from the law and they will not be surprised if you come.”
He explained about the ranch and about Fan Davidge, but he made no reference to the money Davidge was supposed to have hidden. “I need someone there to see she is not harmed, but I must warn you. Ben Janish is there, and Dave Cherry, John Lang, and some others.”
“I will do what I must.”
“Henneker and Arch Billing will help, but neither is a gunfighter.”
He told him, too, about Peg Cullane. He liked the tough, good-humored Mexican. Lebo had come from Sonora and was half Tarahumare, a wary, trail-wise man with no illusions.
Their escape had proved simple. They caught the train from Socorro, and had been dropped at the lonely wayside station where Ruble Noon had first boarded the train on his way south. The same train crew had been with them part of the way, and the long journey gave both Ruble and Lebo a chance to catch up on their sleep.
Ruble Noon checked his Winchester, and his handgun. While Lebo picketed the horses he walked out on the dark slope to listen. No shadows stirred on the mountainside below him, but he waited for some time, checking the night sounds. He loved the stillness, the coolness, the smell of greasewood and cedar.
At daylight Lebo rode away, and then Ruble Noon rode up the trail toward the ranch of the mute. He heard no sound, and there should have been the sound of chickens, some stir of movement, and there was none.
He rode forward slowly, his rifle in his hand, his eyes roving, missing nothing.
The old Mexican lay sprawled on the sand, and he could see that he had been shot at least twice. The horses and cattle were gone. Ruble stepped down and touched the old man’s cheek. It was cold.
Inside the cabin everything had been pulled apart in a hasty search…for what? Had they expected the money to be hidden here?
Was the killing of the old Mexican wanton brutality? Or had they connected the Mexican with him?
He looked around uneasily. He saw nothing suspicious, but he did not like the feeling of the place. Was he watched? Turning slowly, he let his eyes sweep the ridges, without tilting his head back or seeming to be searching. Finally his eyes went to the direction of the shaft that offered access to the cabin above. He could see the cliff, rising sheer.
They had come, killed the old man, stolen the s
tock, and gone away…or had they? Suppose they waited in ambush here as they had at that other ranch? It would be in the pattern.
The moment the thought occurred, he was sure he was right.
But why hadn’t they fired? Were they watching to see what he might do? Where he might go? Suppose they knew nothing of the cabin above? Or of the secret elevator in the shaft? They might merely have guessed at a connection with the old man without knowing what it was, and of course the old Mexican could not tell them. In any case, it was a cruel and heartless murder that could serve no purpose.
To observe the ranch with any success, a watcher must be high enough to see the cabin and the corral, which meant the pinnacle opposite, or the ridge to the west.
What worried him was that somebody obviously had learned something about the working methods of Ruble Noon, for they had known of the ranch near El Paso, and they had discovered this place, probably by working out from the lonely station. Or had they a clearly marked map of his hideouts? Might not any place he chose to go be watched? If they knew more about him than he himself could remember, he might easily walk into a trap.
He found a shovel, and having wrapped the old man in his blankets, he buried him in a shallow grave. As he worked he considered the situation.
He must return to the shaft to get to the cabin on the mountain, and once there he must map his future actions, changing all past patterns, if possible. He must never do what first came to mind, but always something different. He must change his way of dressing, even his walk.
The options his position offered to a rifleman on the ridge of the pinnacle were not many. Perfect fields of fire are rare, for always there are blind spots. East of the cabin, on the way he must go, there were several such blind spots.
His horse had walked off a few steps, and he did not like the idea of going after it. The horse stood in an exposed position, and he had no idea what the orders of the watchers might be…if there were watchers. He did not want to take the risk.
As he turned to the house he glanced toward the east. The east end of the house was one of those blind spots. A man could cover it only if he were among the broken slabs at the foot of the cliff, and this was an unlikely spot. The only field of fire it offered was in case a man started toward it, and by daylight there was no escape from the position.
Yet if he was to escape, that was the direction he must take. Turning to call the horse, he caught a glint of sunlight from the pinnacle….A rifle barrel?
He stepped into the adobe and leaned over a sack of carrots beside the door. Earth still clung to them. Evidently this was the last chore the old man had performed before being killed. He took out a carrot and went outside. The horse came toward him, and Ruble Noon backed into the door, catching the bridle.
He was going to release the horse, so he stripped the saddle and bridle to leave the animal free, then he loosely tied the sack of carrots in its place. He hoped it would fool a marksman into believing he was riding low on the horse, trying to escape. At this distance it was possible.
After tying the horse at the door, he went to the east wall with the shovel and the poker from the fireplace. He broke the hard-packed earth of the floor and dug down quickly beneath the rock wall. The stones had been placed without mortar, and one fell from place. It was the work of only a few minutes to remove several more.
After taking a long drink from the water in one of the ollas, he picked up a rifle, untied the horse, and hitting it a resounding slap on the rump, he ducked for the hole at the moment the horse bolted away from the door. He hoped the running horse would focus their attention, and it did.
He heard the slam of a shot, and then another. The horse, unharmed, went racing toward the railroad, dribbling carrots from the bullet-split sack. Ruble Noon lay gasping in the shelter of the rocks.
Down on the flat the horse had slowed to a walk and the sack looked empty. By now the watchers must suspect that they had been tricked, or that he had dropped from the horse somewhere on the flat.
Would they come searching for him? Or would they think he was still inside the adobe?
It took him nearly half an hour of cautious worming through the rocks to reach the shaft. No tracks showed on the trail, and he took time to brush away those he had left. Then he got into the cave, lowered the platform, and pulled himself up. At the top he made the ropes fast, and squatting near the shaft, studied the dust of the cave.
Nothing seemed to have been disturbed, but he was not a trusting man, and he could not be sure. At the door of the closet he listened, but heard nothing on the other side, and opened the door. The closet was empty.
Did anyone know of this place, now that Davidge was dead? He doubted it, but he could not be certain of that.
The cave was lighted only from the opening that looked up toward the sky. He heard no sound but the beating of his own heart and his muted breathing. Beyond the door death might lie in wait…but when had that not been so?
Whenever a man turned a corner or opened a door he might face death. Now or later, it came to the same thing, but he was not a fatalist. He knew that if he became careless he might die; or if someone came who moved a little quieter, it might be a little swifter, a little surer.
He lifted a hand to open the door when it opened in his face, suddenly and without warning. His gun slid into his hand without conscious thought, and his finger was tightening on the trigger when he caught himself. It was Fan…Fan Davidge was here.
She stepped back quickly, and he went out into the cabin, gun in hand. She was alone, or seemed to be, and she was frightened.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know…something. Ben Janish returned last night, angry and swearing. Something had gone wrong and he was furious, so I got up and dressed in the dark.”
“Did he come to the house?”
“I don’t know. I thought he would, and so did Hen. Hen came and tapped at my window, and told me I had to get away. He had your horse and he told me to let the horse take me, that the horse would go where you had gone.”
“What about Arch Billing?”
“I don’t know. I did as Hen told me. I was afraid Arch would try to defend me, and they would kill him. There were others there who came back with Janish. I think there were several, and one of them was a girl.”
“Peg Cullane?”
“What has she to do with all this? What is happening?”
He went to the window and looked toward the trail. She would not have covered her tracks, she could not have, and how long would it take to find them? He went to the shelf and filled his pockets with .44’s, then went back to the window and kept his eyes on the trail.
“They are money-hungry,” he told Fan, “all of them. Peg Cullane most of all.”
“But what is there? Pa left nothing except the ranch.”
“There is more, and they know it. Peg Cullane learned—I don’t know how—that your pa had some money hidden. Janish knows, too. I don’t know if the rest of them do or not.”
“What about you?”
“Tom Davidge trusted me. I don’t know why.”
“And you know where the money is?”
“I’ve told you. I remember almost nothing, but nobody would believe that I don’t remember. I am beginning to remember some things, and maybe I will recall more.”
Her eyes searched his. “I don’t care about the money,” she said finally, “but I do love the ranch. I want that.”
“You’ll have it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It is my business, or so I have been told. I shall have to play by instinct, and I hope it works.”
Silent then, they watched the trail. There was little they could do. He felt closed in, trapped, and he did not like the feeling. The money might be here, but he did not like waiting inside.
He cared nothing for the money, either. He was a man lost, and he wished to find himself. That he was Jonas Mandrin seemed certain, but who was Jonas Mandrin? With his loss of identity he had lost the troubles of that identity, and also the hatred of crime that had led him to kill.
The amnesia might be an attempt of his mind to escape all that, and he saw little reason to go back now and try to recover the past, but he did wish to know what he was. What he needed now was a chance to begin again.
As they waited he told her a little of what he had learned about Jonas Mandrin, and how he believed he had become Ruble Noon.
Bitter with anger over the murder of his wife, he had drifted. When attacked he had struck back hard, and when the rancher had recruited him to make war against rustlers he had accepted at once, for they represented the evil that had robbed him of his wife and his happiness.
Suddenly he felt angry with himself. “I am a fool to wait here, to be pinned down,” he said. He took a rifle and a shotgun from the rack and loaded them. “You keep these,” he told her. “If they start to break in, go through the closet the way I did. They’ll find it, but it will take time. Save the shotgun for then.”
He pulled off his boots and put on a pair of moccasins from the closet; then, taking his rifle, he turned to go out.
She stopped him. “Jonas—or whatever your name is—be careful.”
He put his hand on her arm. “Fan…you know about me. Don’t have any illusions.”
“My father fought rustlers, outlaws, and bad Indians when he came west,” she said. “If only the evil men are willing to use force, what will happen to the good men? Some of these bad men understand nothing but violence. It seems to me that there is a time to use a gun, and there is a time to put it down.”
“You think I could put the guns away?”
“Why not? You were a newspaperman, then a businessman. You can put down your gun and take up your pen. It is as simple as that.”
He went down the trail with the long striding walk of a woodsman, but when he was among the trees he waited and listened. Mountain air is clear, and sound carries. Now he was at the top of a steep bluff up which they must come, but at first he heard nothing.
The Man Called Noon (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 10
