The Man Called Noon (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Lebo shrugged. “You call it and I’ll play the hand.”

  Ruble Noon looked back. The trail behind them was empty. They moved off swiftly, Winchesters across their saddlebows.

  * * *

  PEG CULLANE WAS coldly furious. Her lovely features were taut and she rode stiffly in the saddle. Lyman Manly and John Lang rode beside her; neither was talking. Lyman was surly, but Lang was not disturbed—he was a veteran of too many wars. You won and you lost, but if you bucked a stacked deck you were a fool. From the first he had been reluctant, but Peg Cullane had wanted to go in.

  There had been too much cover. He still did not know how many had been there; but three to four wasn’t enough odds when one of them was Ruble Noon and at least two others were under cover, with rifles.

  Four…five if Peg Cullane had chosen to shoot, but he had a good hunch she did not intend to. Whether Henneker and Billing had been there he did not know, nor care. The odds were wrong, and the thing to do was ease back and ride out, waiting for another chance when the odds were different; and that chance always came.

  Peg Cullane was not used to losing, and she wanted that money. Lang had no doubt that she wanted it all. From the beginning he had felt sure of that. He had been equally sure it wouldn’t work out that way. It always turned out to be every man for himself.

  It was Judge Niland who broke the silence. “I suggest we stop, make some coffee, and settle down a bit. Then we talk this over and see where we stand.”

  Peg started to reply, but Lang interrupted in his mild tone. “Seems like a good idea. That was kinda rough there for a minute.”

  “He killed Ben,” Lyman muttered. “He cut him down.”

  “Well,” Lang said philosophically, “Ben shouldn’t have missed that first time. He had him dead to rights.”

  “Ben was too sure of himself,” the Judge said quietly. “If he had taken a moment more, none of this would have happened. By this time we would have divided half a million dollars and gone our separate ways.”

  “So now what?” Lyman Manly wondered aloud.

  “We go after them.” Peg’s tone was crisp. “We go get them. By now they have it, whatever it was, and are on their way.”

  “I thought you said it was gold?” Lang said.

  “Tom Davidge’s brother-in-law told me it was bullion, gold bullion. There was some currency, too, I think.”

  “How come he told you?”

  “He hated Tom. He was drinking when he told me about it—facts, figures, places, and dates, and I checked on some of it to be sure the story was true. He got wind of it somehow and came down on me, wanting a share.”

  “What did you promise him?”

  Peg Cullane gave Manly a disgusted glance. “Him? I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about, and sent him packing.”

  She dismounted with the others and watched Lyman put a fire together. Standing off at one side gave her a chance to think. For the first time in several weeks she could look at the problem calmly and assay her position.

  Since returning from school she had lived in El Paso with a maiden aunt. Their income was comfortable, but not large, and the future that lay before her was to her anything but pleasant. She did not like El Paso, and she did not like the West. She wanted to go back East or to Europe, but on their limited finances that was impossible.

  Completely selfish, she cared nothing for her aunt, and was impatient of the restrictions put upon her by the small city in which they lived. School in the East had let her see how things might be, and she at once had begun to plan an escape. During her last trip east Davidge’s brother-in-law, whom she had met casually through Fan, had given her information that she believed she alone possessed—until she discovered that Judge Niland was also aware of it.

  Where there is money there will be hands reaching for it, and the idea that half a million dollars was lying somewhere unknown to anyone galled her. Moreover, Peg felt there was no reason why Fan should ever know about the money. At the same time, it was nearly impossible to search the ranch for hiding places while Ben Janish and his outlaws were there.

  The information that came to her, partly from Dean and partly from the Judge, was a shock. A man had been sent to kill several of the outlaws, and he was to deliver the money to Fan. When Ruble Noon arrived in the country, four people there knew about the money: Judge Niland, Dean Cullane, Ben Janish, and herself.

  Ben Janish had been told when it became necessary to get him to kill Ruble Noon. The Judge had convinced Janish he must not wait to give Noon a chance in a gun battle, but must kill him at once, before he met Fan Davidge to tell her of the money.

  The attempt had failed, and somehow Dean Cullane had been killed during that evening. That left three who had known about the money. Now Ben Janish had been killed by Ruble Noon, which left only two on their side.

  She did not look toward the Judge, but she was thinking about him. All her life she had schemed and plotted to get what she wanted, and she had no doubt she would succeed in this, too.

  Ruble Noon was her first trouble, but she had little doubt that he would be killed. Finn Cagle and German Bayles, whom she had hired herself, would take care of that. They would also be on hand to handle anyone else who might stand between her and the money.

  But now Ruble Noon had killed Janish and had escaped with the money, so undoubtedly Fan now knew of it, too.

  “Denver,” the Judge suddenly said positively. “He will try to bank the money there. I doubt if he would trust it to any bank between here and there, because he knows we might hold up the bank to get it. He’s simply got to go to Denver—and we can’t allow him to get there.”

  “He’ll try for the train,” Lang said. “He’s got a better chance of making it by train.”

  “And we’ll be there first,” Niland said. “We’ll ride right down the trail to Durango. He will stay off the trail for fear of ambush, and so he will travel slower.”

  “Where’s Durango?” Lyman asked. “I’m new in this country.”

  “East of here. Animas City was the town, but when the railroad came in they built their own town right at the tracks. That’s Durango. It’s only been there a few months.”

  “I gotta friend down the line,” Lang offered. “We can ride like hell and swap horses at his place.”

  Peg Cullane made no comment, but she was doing some thinking of her own. The fools! Do they think a man like Ruble Noon will chance appearing on the station platform at Durango? In a town so small that nobody could hide?

  Judge Niland brought her a cup of coffee and she thanked him. She brushed a wisp of hair back from her face. “I’m afraid I’m not cut out for this,” she said. “I prefer towns and cities.”

  He smiled. “Why don’t you just ride on to Durango with us? It will be all over there, and if there is any more that remains to be done you can just wait there. I will protect your interests.”

  I’ll bet, she thought, but she smiled. “Thank you, Judge. I believe I will do just that.”

  They finished their coffee, put out the fire, mounted their horses, and started down the trail to Durango.

  The man standing in the aspens thirty feet off the trail relaxed the grip on his horse’s nostrils and kicked the kinks from his own legs, cramped from being in the same position too long.

  J. B. Rimes had come upon them unexpectedly, and although he was friendly with John Lang and was known to Judge Niland, he did not feel it wise to let his presence be known.

  They had been absent from the ranch for many hours and knew nothing of the raid that had swept up the last of the outlaws, a few nondescripts who counted for nothing. Arch Billing, Henneker, and a few new hands were now in control, and he himself had been working out the trail of Janish and the others.

  He had found the body of Dave Cherry from directions given him by Kissling, before Kissling ro
de away. That was his first lead.

  An hour before, he had heard shots, but by the time he got down the mountain he had found only the body of Ben Janish.

  “Two gone,” he said aloud.

  Rimes had not been living on the ranch for several days, but had taken to the hills to avoid being roped in on the fight against Ruble Noon. He had his own job to do, and it had nothing in common with the work of Ben Janish.

  Now he mounted his horse and started east, holding to the path beside the trail. As he rode he was thinking out what he had just overheard.

  They were going after Ruble Noon, and they were expecting to head him off at Durango, but Peg Cullane was leaving them, supposedly to go into town and clean up. He had a very good hunch that Peg would be on the train before they were, and that she would be heading east, not for Durango….For Alamosa? La Veta?

  He had scouted the country well, and now he struck an old Indian trail that would take him across country toward Ignacio, on the railroad below Durango.

  He picked up the first tracks on the slope of Bridge Timber Mountain. Five horses? The tracks were confused, and there might have been one more or one less. After that, he glimpsed tracks occasionally, and near the mouth of Sawmill Canyon he picked them up clearly.

  He had guessed right. There were three riders and two pack horses. When they stopped for water and dismounted, he could see the three riders’ tracks clearly, and one set was made by a small foot. That would be Fan’s. Noon’s moccasins he had learned to know, but the third rider was a puzzle—high-heeled boots and large-roweled California-style spurs. Wherever this man squatted he left spur marks in the sand.

  J. B. Rimes was satisfied. He was going to overtake them before they reached the railroad.

  CHAPTER 19

  SEVERAL HOURS BEFORE Rimes found their tracks on Bridge Timber Mountain, they had broken camp there and moved on. In his haste to pursue their trail, Rimes never did locate that camp.

  In the last moments of light, Ruble Noon had turned off the trail into the pines, found a small clearing where melting snow offered water, and made a hasty camp. They were about eight thousand feet up, and the air was cold.

  Noon’s work was swift and practiced. While Lebo put together a small fire, he cut two forked sticks, set them in the ground, and laid a pole across the forks. With other cut branches he built a lean-to against this frame and thatched it with evergreens, starting from the bottom and hooking each branch over a crosspiece as he worked up. It was not long before he had a good shelter from either wind or rain.

  “How far is it now to the railroad?” Fan asked.

  “Not far now. We’ll catch the train at Ignacio.”

  “You mean the reservation trading post?”

  “Nearby. The Denver & Rio Grande stops near there. The way I figure, they’ll ride to Durango and look for us there, and they’ll lose time. They might take the train, but they’d be afraid if we weren’t on it that we might take the next one or some other route. They’ve got to cover everything.”

  His shoulder was painful. He had treated it as best he could, but it worried him. It needed medical attention, but there was no chance for that this side of Denver, unless there was somebody on the train who could give it.

  They went down the mountain early in the morning and reached the Animas River shortly after daybreak. They forded the river where it was stirrup-deep, and a little over an hour later they crossed the Florida near the mouth of Cottonwood Gulch.

  The Ute Indian Trail lay across the flat before them, the low wall of the Mesa Mountains to the south. Ruble Noon headed east, holding to a good pace and keeping Piedra Peak ahead of his right shoulder.

  “How far?” Fan asked again.

  “Ten miles…maybe less. With luck, we won’t have to wait long.”

  “I’m frightened. We’re so close to the end.”

  “Forget it—the worry, I mean. We’re going to make it.”

  Lebo spoke. “Dust, back yonder.”

  “Utes, probably.”

  “Only one rider,” Lebo said, “and coming up fast.”

  They dipped into a hollow, topped the rise beyond, and looked back. Dust was in the air, but it was far back.

  They could see the green line of trees along the Los Pinos River. The railroad was just this side, following the river south.

  Ruble Noon drew his Winchester from the scabbard, and looked back again. The rider was gaining on them.

  “What is there at the station?” Fan asked.

  “Very little. The Ute Agency is just a couple of miles north. I think there’s a water tank and a box car for a station.”

  “I hope there’s some shade.”

  “There is.”

  She was silent for a while, and then said, “I am sure I have come through here on the train several times, but I remember nothing of it.”

  “No reason to. It’s a forgettable place. The beauty is in the country around.”

  His mouth was dry and his stomach felt empty. He glanced back toward the strange rider, still too far away to see. Ahead of them he could now make out the outline of the water tank, and of a low building—it was more than a box car. The trees along the river were green. He could use a drink.

  He deliberately slowed their pace, not wanting to attract too much attention, and hoping that before they reached the station he could see whoever might be there. There would be a train along soon.

  The platform was empty. The small, two-roomed building that was the station was empty also. They rode up, then went past it and pulled up under the rustling green of the cottonwoods. For a moment he sat in his saddle, listening. Then he got down.

  “Jonas?”

  He turned sharply, surprised at the name. It was Fan who spoke. “I told you I was going to call you that. It is your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  At that moment he knew for sure that it was. For the first time the name felt right to him—not a name he had simply chosen, but one that belonged to him, a name that was his.

  “Jonas, isn’t there some way we can get away without trouble?”

  “That’s the plan. If the train arrives before they do, and if they are not on the train, then we can make it. But remember, Fan, they’re going to try to get the gold from you.”

  “Let them have it.”

  “I can’t. Not in good conscience, I can’t. I took money from your father to kill four men, but if I can save what is yours without that, then I will have done what it was given me to do.

  “And this would not be an end, Fan. You cannot submit to evil without allowing evil to grow. Each time the good are defeated, or each time they yield, they only cause the forces of evil to grow stronger. Greed feeds greed, and crime grows with success. Our giving up what is ours merely to escape trouble would only create greater trouble for someone else.

  “If we can get on the train and get away before they come we will have won; but if they arrive with the train or before, we must fight.”

  He stopped, and she was silent.

  The day was hot and still. Over the mountains great black thunderheads loomed up, vast swellings shot through with jagged streaks of lightning. The air was close, unlike mountain air. On the Pacific coast in the old days they would have said it was earthquake weather. He put a hand down and touched the butt of his gun. It felt curiously cool and comforting, and he knew he would need it soon.

  He would need it, because there was no yielding to any of them. The weak and the doubtful were dead or gone; Kissling was gone, and others were gone, too. Tough Dave Cherry was gone. And Ben Janish—the top man with a gun, the one most feared—he was gone.

  There were enough who remained, but any one of them might die, and that went for him as well. He was good—he knew that deep inside himself. He was resolute, he was fast, he was sure. Above all, at th
e moment of truth, that moment when it came time to draw and live, or draw and die, he was cool…or he always had been.

  Would he be so now? That was the thing. A man never knew. He had seen strong, dangerous men suddenly lose faith in themselves, either in front of a gun or during a fight, like Billy Brooks against Kirk Jordan in Dodge. Brooks had proved his nerve time and again, and when the Jordan thing was long past he was to prove it again and again—but against Jordan and his big .50 buffalo gun he lost his nerve.

  Lebo spoke. “There’s a rider comin’,” he said. “Down the old Ute Trail.”

  They could see him. He was coming hard, riding all out…and in a moment they knew why. The train whistled. It was far up the track, but it was coming.

  Ruble Noon touched his tongue to his lips. “Strip the gear off the horses,” he said. “They’ll go back where they came from.”

  The Mexican looked at him. “You going out there, amigo? Out in the open?”

  “Yes.”

  Lebo’s shrug was eloquent.

  They could hear the pound of hoofs now, and the train whistled again. Ruble Noon eased his gun in its holster to be sure it was free to move fast.

  Thunder rumbled…the storm was closer now.

  They started for the station, leading the two pack horses. Fan walked beside them, still holding her rifle. Little puffs of dust lifted from the road as they crossed it. On the platform their footsteps sounded loud…a brilliant streak of lightning bulged a cloud with livid flame, and thunder cracked. A few scattered drops fell.

  Ruble Noon removed the sacks from the pack saddles and put them down on the platform.

  Then suddenly they were there, at the end of the platform, and he had no idea where they had come from.

  Lang was there, and Manly, and there was another man—a Mexican, tall and thin, wearing a wide sombrero, twin cartridge belts, and a thin black mustache.

  Cristobal!

  Ruble Noon’s agreement had been for four men and a woman. A woman? He would never have agreed to that.