the Man Called Noon (1970)

by L'amour, Louis

"They told me you never gave anybody a break."

  "Maybe you're an exception." As he spoke he was listening, one part of his attention on those others, on Ben Janish and John Lang. "I don't want to kill you, Kissling, but you can see the odds. You might miss with a six-shooter, even if you got it out ... at forty feet I am not going to miss with this rifle."

  Kissling could feel the sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. He had an out, and he was going to take it. Maybe there was a lot of money here somewhere. Maybe. But a corpse doesn't spend very much, and a corpse isn't welcome in the red-light districts or in the saloons.

  "I think I'll walk," Kissling said quietly. "You won't think less of me?"

  "If you want to know, I think you've just grown up. A kid would have grabbed for his gun and died."

  Kissling turned his back and walked back into the trees. He did not point himself back toward Janish, but started working his way back down the steep slope, using the trees for hand holds. He moved almost as if in a trance, his mind empty, conscious only that he was pulling out, he was going to live.

  Ruble Noon watched him go with relief. Kissling had been a borderline case ... there was a chance for him, bull-headed as he seemed to be. There would be no such chance for Ben Janish or Lang. They were hardened, and steeped in evil.

  Ghostlike, he eased back into the shelter of the trees. From where he now waited he had a diagonal view of the trail, and he would be able to see the men as they came into view. He could get at least one of them before they could drop from sight, and the man he had been would have done just that.

  Farther down the slope Ben Janish swore. He had heard no gunshot. "He's missed him! That calf-eyed Kissling couldn't find a saddle in a lighted barn."

  "Give him time," Lang said dryly. "That ain't no pilgrim he's huntin'."

  But no sound came down the sunlit hill, no movement disturbed the leaf shadows. "All right," Janish said finally, "we're movin' up. Walk easy, an' be ready to shoot. We ain't likely to get too many chances."

  Janish moved ahead, and started working his way up the trail. Better than the others, he knew what a woodsman Ruble Noon probably was. A cautious man, Janish had read whatever items had appeared in the newspapers about gunfighters and gunmen whom he might someday meet, and he had listened to the campfire and barroom stories of gun battles. He had heard a great deal about Ruble Noon, and the one factor that stood out was that he was a man to be feared.

  The failure to hear anything from Kissling worried him. What could have happened? Kissling had wanted to shoot. He was a trigger-happy kid ... well, not so much a kid as a young man who acted like one more often than not. Kissling would shoot if he glimpsed a target, but he would surely shoot too quick, and probably die because of it.

  He knew why Kissling had gone up the mountain, for he knew from experience that it was easier to go than to wait.

  They moved along, wary of every shadow, but seeing nothing at all.

  "How do we know that he's been up there?" Charlie asked suddenly. "We ain't seen nothin'."

  "She went this way and we've got to get her back. Suppose she gets off scot-free and goes to the law?" Lang suggested. And then he added, "You can bet she knew where he went. You recall he disappeared clean off the map when he went thisaway."

  Ruble Noon heard them coming and moved deeper into the trees. He was at home here in the woods, as at home as any creatures of the wilderness. He liked the stillness, with only the far-off faint murmur of voices, the sound of wind in the trees; yet now that he was faced with what must be done, he hesitated.

  He had been a hunter of big game, a famous marksman, president and owner of an arms company, and a newspaperman, a writer of sorts. And then he had become a hunter of men. After that had come the blow on the head, and the amnesia. He seemed to have lost none of his skill because of it, but he had lost, or seemed to have lost, the concentrated intent, the purpose.

  These men who were hunting him were outlaws, they were killers, and if they found him they would kill him, and they might kill Fan as well. Certainly they would terrorize her, bully her, keep her a prisoner. They were his enemies, enemies of society, beasts of prey. And yet he did not want to kill them.

  Now his very lack of intent was a danger. In the situation he faced there could be no time for hesitation, no time for philosophical considerations. He must kill or be killed ... and he did not want to die.

  He waited, crouching low, hearing their movements. Twice he caught glimpses of them through the leaves, and at least once he had Charlie dead in his sights, but he did not fire. But every step brought them nearer to Fan, nearer to a moment when he would no longer have a choice.

  How many were there down there? At least six, he thought. He had not seen all the outlaws at the Rafter D, and there might even be more, but six he had detected.

  He tried to think of some way he might stop them without actually firing on them. They probably would not hesitate to kill or capture him if given the opportunity.

  He lifted his rifle, eased the pressure on the trigger just a little, and took a breath. He let it out easily, and -

  He heard the step behind him even as his finger was tightening to fire. He threw himself backward quickly, and took a wicked blow on the shoulder as he fell.

  Rolling over, he came up with the rifle and fired .... too quickly. He missed, scrambled back into the brush, and heard a yell from the trail. Then came a crashing of brush, and above him to the right he heard a voice.

  It was a cold, contemptuous voice, and it was the voice of Judge Niland. "I grew up in the woods, Ruble Noon. I wasn't worried about you, because I knew I could kill you myself."

  Coldness came over him. He was hit, he knew that, but he hoped not badly. It was the fact that it was Judge Niland that was such a shock.

  He had been watching the group on the trail, and had allowed his attention to lapse elsewhere. He was a fool.

  He eased back among the trees. He would need now every bit of woods skill he had ever possessed. He dared not shoot at Niland, for if he did half a dozen rifles would on the instant pour fire at the spot where he was. And Niland knew this. Ruble Noon heard his voice speaking confidently.

  "Move in slowly, Ben. We've got him. He hasn't got a chance."

  His left arm felt numb and he lifted a hand to his shoulder - it came away wet. Wiping it on his pants leg so the blood would not drop on the ground, he eased back a little more.

  The steep mountainside was covered with pines or clumps of aspen. Niland was somewhat above and behind him, the others were coming from the trail, so he backed away, working his way down and across the face of the mountain.

  Taking his rifle in his left hand, he used his other hand in slithering back among, the trees. On the pines needles he made almost no sound as he moved in a crouch.

  Something rustled in the direction of the trail, but nothing sounded from above, where Niland was. The Judge was good -he had not lost his touch.

  He knew they might be close upon him, but he dared not lift his head to look. He went into the aspens almost crawling, squirmed downhill a bit more, then got up and scuttled several yards before dropping again.

  Somebody shouted: "There! I saw him!" It was Charlie's voice.

  The brush crashed lower down, and in front of him, and suddenly Lang broke through not forty yards away. They saw each other at the same instant, and Charlie's rifle came up. His eyes were bright with triumph as he tightened his finger on the trigger.

  He was looking along the barrel at Noon, saw him there, dark against the green of the aspens and the white of their trunks. Noon was holding his rifle in his left hand, and Charlie took time to shout, "Come on! I got him!"

  Even as he fired, he saw a stab of flame from Ruble Noon's rifle. The butt was under Noon's left arm, the rifle pointed with his left hand.

  He'll never hit anything that way,Charlie told himself as he fired.

  Something seemed to turn under his heel, and his rifle went off into the ground.
He stared ... puzzled, wondering why he had dropped the muzzle. He started to lift it again, but he was overcome by a sudden weakness. The earth slid from under his feet and he lay face down on the pine needles. He got his hands under him and started to push up, and was startled to see the ground where he had fallen was red with blood.

  He got to his knees and suddenly began to cough. It was a racking cough that hurt terribly. He put his hand up to wipe away the wetness around his mouth, and stared stupidly at the hand. The wetness was blood, a kind of frothy blood. He blinked, and was suddenly afraid.

  He knew he had been hit in the lungs. He dropped his rifle and ripped open his shirt. He could see the hole in his chest... small, and not very important-looking - Only a trickle of blood came from it.

  He wanted to yell for help, but at first no voice came, and when he called a stab of pain went through him.

  "Ben! Help me! For God's sake - "

  Nobody answered, but he could hear them moving along the slope, searching for Ruble Noon.

  He took up his rifle and started along the slope. He was no longer eager to find Ruble Noon. He no longer wanted to find anyone. He wanted to get to his horse, to ride to the ranch. If he could get there that girl... Fan Davidge ... she would take care of him.

  He made it to the trail, and started downhill toward the horses. He stumbled and fell, and lay on the leaves in a patch of golden sunshine. It reminded him of the spring where they used to go for water back on the claim in Arkansas. He used to lie in the sun like this, smelling the grass, listening to the water.

  He could do with a drink, but he no longer wanted to get up ... or hadn't the strength. They'd be along soon, and they'd find him ... ma would find him. She always had. She'd know what to do....

  Ruble Noon was in the aspens. The slim trunks of the trees stood so close together and there were so many of them that there was not one chance in a hundred of a bullet hitting him even if they saw him. There was no clear line of fire from any direction.

  He got to his feet and ran, ducking and dodging, worming his way through the trees, intent only on getting away. Behind him somebody fired, and he heard the smack as a bullet bit a tree.

  He got through the trees, saw a narrow game trail, and hit it running. He was bleeding, and he had no idea how far he could go. But if he stopped only death awaited him.

  He ran down the trail, ducked through another patch of aspen, and suddenly saw a steep, rocky cleft leading up toward the crest of the ridge.

  Could he make it? Could he make it in time, before they reached him?

  He went into the cleft and began scrambling up. The movement hurt like the very devil, and the top of the cleft was still about forty feet up. He climbed on up, and the rocks rolled back under his feet.

  From below him there came a shout, then a shot. Rock fragments stung his cheek. He reached the top, rolled safely over the edge, and saw a boulder poised on the brink. Lying on his back, he put the soles of his moccasins against the boulder and shoved hard. The rock moved, teetered, and then went crashing down.

  A yell of alarm sounded from below, then a scream. Other rocks cascaded after the first one. He pushed himself to his feet.

  He was in a high valley, not unlike the neighboring valley in which the cabin stood. The valley floor was covered with grass, with a little snow along the sides in areas sheltered from the sun, and some snow lay beneath the trees. The cabin valley was over the low ridge to the north.

  He started to run, wanting to get among the trees before his pursuers came into this valley. He was bleeding from the shoulder wound, and after a few running steps he slowed down and began to walk. Crossing the meadow on a diagonal line, he entered the trees at a spot where there was no snow.

  Glancing back, he could see no trail behind him, but he knew he must have left one. He worked his way up toward the crest of the ridge, which was several hundred feet higher than the meadow.

  When he had climbed almost halfway he stopped to get his breath. He was high up, and the altitude as well as his wound was getting him. Crouching close to a deadfall where he could watch the way he had climbed, he got out his handkerchief and plugged the wound as best he could. It was not serious in itself, but the loss of blood frightened him.

  As he waited he saw the first man appear ... with great caution. Laying his rifle down, he hitched himself into a sitting position, then lifted the rifle again and, bracing his elbow, took careful aim. He took a deep breath, let a little of it go, and eased back on the trigger. The man below had climbed a little higher for a better view. Catching him in the V of his sight, Ruble Noon tightened ever so gently on the trigger. The rifle leaped in his hands and the man spun around and dropped, scrambled up, and fell again.

  Using the rifle to help himself up, Ruble Noon got to his feet and, without even looking back, continued on. He must be at an altitude of at least eleven thousand feet now, and he had taken only a few steps when he had to pause again to get his wind. He looked back, but saw nothing.

  He went on, and was nearly at the top of the ridge before he looked back. He could see a number of figures moving over the meadow toward him.

  Again he sat down, steadying the rifle and wishing for a sling to hold it still. He took aim at one of the figures. They were now six or seven hundred yards behind him; and at such a range, even with perfect conditions, he might be several inches off in his shots, enough to make every one a miss, and the men below were fairly close together-he could put every one of his shots into a twenty-foot square. Seated and well braced, he squeezed off five quick shots. The men in the meadow scattered like quail. One of them stumbled and fell, then stood up again.

  Ruble Noon got up slowly, reloading his rifle as he did so. He had done better shooting, and he thought of Billy Dixon at Adobe Walls, who had knocked an Indian from his horse at just under a mDe ... but that was with a Sharps buffalo gun, a big .50.

  He climbed on to the crest of the ridge, which was half bare at this point. Looking across the cabin, valley, he could see the location of the cabin, but could not actually see the cabin itself, which was hidden in the shoulder of the rock.

  He was very tired from the climb and the altitude. He sat down, breathing deeply of the cold, clear air. They would come after him, he knew, but they would come cautiously, not knowing when he might shoot again.

  The best thing for him now would be to get to the cabin, get Fan, and with her work their way to the ranch. Miguel should be there now, and with Arch and Hen to help, they should be able to handle whatever came ... if they could get back.

  In spite of his tiredness, he had to go down the ridge and across that other meadow. Would there be somebody watching the ranch house? Or had they already captured the place? Did they already have Fan?

  He started to rise, but his knees gave way and he sat dT$wn abruptly. For a moment he waited there, feeling fear within him.

  This was too open a spot. There was no place here in which to fight. He did not try to get up again, but instead he lay down and rolled over three times to get off the ridge. Then he caught hold of an outcrop and pulled himself up. He would make it - he had to make it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The ridge, the divide between two hanging valleys, had been scoured by glacial action. The trees along its steep flanks were Engelmann spruce, with a scattering of gnarled and ancient bristle-cone pine.

  Ruble Noon worked his way carefully along the slope, knowing that a fall might finish him. His wound had stopped bleeding, but it was still a reason for caution, for though no more than a flesh wound, it had weakened him by loss of blood.

  He paused by an old spruce to catch his breath again, and a camp-robber jay, drawn by his presence, hopped from limb to limb.

  The ground here was mostly covered by broken rock littered with the bare bones,of fallen trees, or by rocks half covered with lichen. He found a narrow, steep slide of gray rock and worked his way down, ending up in a thick patch of bracken and lady fern, mixed with scattered clumps of
columbine.

  He pushed himself up with his rifle and continued on down through a stand of spruce, until he halted on the edge of the grassy floor of the valley, thick with patches of low-growing flowers. He hesitated there, his eyes searching the prospect before him.

  The cabin, still hidden among the rocks across the narrow valley, was scarcely two hundred yards away, but the distance seemed very great when he considered that there was no cover, and he would be a perfect target in that space. But here was no other way.

  He did not know what he would find when he got there. Fan Davidge must be his first consideration. After all, she was his reason for being here at all. She might be a prisoner, or she might be dead, and he might walk into a trap; but it was a risk he could not avoid. For better or worse, he must cross that open valley and get to the cabin.

  His rifle ready in his hand, he took a long breath and stepped out from the spruce trees and started to walk. He took long, easy strides on the soft grass, and aimed toward a point of rock on the far side of the valley.

  At twenty steps he permitted himself a glance around ... nothing was in sight. At twice that distance he was still alone, still moving forward.

  He looked at the pinnacle, about a hundred and fifty yards off. He had been a good distance runner once, but never a good dash man. However, he had never had anyone with a rifle behind him when he tried dashes... and that could make a difference.

  He held to his pace. Ahead and a little to the left he saw the scattered small rocks of a moraine-nothing very imposing, but a chance of some slight cover. He went on. ...

  A branch cracked in the stillness. He glanced over his shoulder-a man was there, lifting a rifle to his shoulder.

  Ruble Noon took off like a startled deer. Gunfire was sure to attract others, and he wanted to be able to shoot from shelter. Whatever running he was going to do had better be done now.

  On the fourth stride he side-stepped nimbly and took off at a tangent. He heard the sharp bark of the rifle, and saw the bullet kick up dust ahead. He took another step, then turned to the right, glimpsed a shallow place in the valley floor, and hit the ground sliding, then rolled into the hollow.