He could have caught the train at Las Cruces, but decided against it. If they were watching the railroad, that would be the logical place. He rode hard, swapped horses at a small ranch, and continued on. The gray he picked up in exchange for the roan was a short-coupled horse with a rough gait, but he was built for stamina.
It was just past sundown when he heard the sound of a cowbell, and topping out on a bluff near the river, he saw a ranch nestled among some cottonwoods on a small creek that ran toward the Rio Grande.
He circled around to the trail down the bluff and rode to the ranch. By the time he reached the place it was dark, but there was a light in the window, which was extinguished when a dog began barking furiously. He drew up and hailed the house, first in English, then in Spanish.
When there was no reply he walked his horse forward into the ranchyard. He stopped there, and called out again.
Someone under the cottonwoods near the house spoke. “What do you wish, señor?”
“A meal, and a horse you’ll swap me for this one.”
“Where do you go?”
“Socorro, amigo.”
The Mexican walked out from under the trees. “You may ride up, señor, but my son…he is under the trees with a Winchester.”
“You are wise, amigo. Many bad hombres ride these days.”
He swung down and turned the horse so that they could see him more clearly. “It is a good horse,” he said, “but I ride far and I have enemies.”
The Mexican shrugged. “A man can be judged by those who hate him. Si, it is a good horse, a very good horse, and you have come far.”
The Mexican turned his head toward the house and called, “A plate and a cup, mamacita.” Turning back to Ruble Noon, he said, “Come, señor.”
Noon hesitated. “I would bring my rifle, amigo. It is agreed?”
“Of course.” Then he added, “My son will see to the horse.”
They walked to the house together, and Ruble removed his hat as he entered, bowing to the Mexican woman who stood at the stove. “I am too much trouble, señora,” he said.
“It is no trouble. Sit down, if you will.”
The frijoles were hot and filling; he ate two helpings of them, several tortillas, and some roast beef.
“You were hungry, señor,” the woman said.
He smiled. “To eat a meal you have cooked, señora, is the greatest pleasure. And if I had not been hungry the taste would have made me so.”
She beamed at him, and refilled his coffee cup. He sat back in his chair. “Your road is not traveled,” he said, “or else the wind has blown away the tracks.”
The Mexican shrugged. “The sand and the wind…you know how it is.”
“The gray horse,” Ruble Noon suggested…“I will give you a paper…a bill of sale. But if anyone should follow me, I do not want the horse seen. Do you understand?”
“There is a pasture among the willows down by the river, señor, not a place to be found. I will keep the horse there.”
Ruble Noon got to his feet, reluctant to leave the friendliness of these simple people. He stood for a moment, and glanced around. “You are fortunate,” he said. “You have much here.”
“We are poor people, señor.”
“Poor? I would say you are richer than you know. You have a house, some cattle, you have food, and you have each other. It is a great deal more than I will have out there.” He indicated the night outside. Then he went out, moving at once to the side of the door.
The younger Mexican spoke. “I have saddled a horse. He is a good one and will go far.”
“Gracias, amigo.”
The others came outside. He had been there only a short time, but there was something between them now. They stood there together. “Vaya con dios,” the señora said, and he lifted a hand to them and rode away into the night.
Yet now he was uneasy. The warmth of their quiet house remained with him, but slowly a feeling crept over him that he was followed. There was something, someone out there in the night.
He had known so little of life—a few days only, days of doubt, apprehension, worry, and fear…and what had there been before? If he was to believe what he had read, there had been a wife, a child, and then their murders. He did not know his age, but he guessed it to be somewhere in the thirties. He had founded his own company, and had been president of it while still in his twenties. And he had been a famous sportsman, a crack shot,…a hunter.
Well, he was still a hunter…and hunted.
The horse he rode was a lineback dun, tough, quick, and eager for the trail—a horse that liked to travel, that liked the night. He followed the river for a time, and when he climbed up from it he saw the gleam of moonlight on the railroad tracks. There was no sound in the night except that of crickets, but twice, feeling uneasy, he drew up to listen, and once he thought he heard some unidentified sound not very far off.
If he was as dangerous as was implied, they would be wary, and they would try to trap him. If they did not try to kill him now, they must be sure of some better place ahead, some place where a trap would be easier, or where a trap had already been laid.
Did he dare try to escape? Did he dare try to ride out of the basin, turning at right angles to his course and heading for the mountains?
Ahead, he knew, there were villages, and beyond them Socorro. It was a small town but a very old one, a town with many good people and not a few outlaws. The Black Range lay off to his left, Apache-haunted, outlaw-infested, wild and beautiful…or so he had heard.
Abruptly, he turned away from the river. He walked the dun, with frequent pauses to listen, but working his way through the undergrowth toward higher ground. The mountains were a ragged edge against the sky.
His mind would not leave his predicament, but worried over it as a dog worries a bone. The name Jonas Mandrin had come to him out of some store of memory beyond his conscious awareness. Whatever lay hidden there he did not know, but names and ideas seemed to spring into his mind from that past, where memory lurked.
In such a case, might he not, in time, recover the knowledge of where the Davidge money was hidden?
Or supposing he deliberately prodded that memory by sitting down with paper and pencil and writing a list of all the possible places he could think of where it might be? If he did this, might not the actual hiding place come to mind?
Judge Niland believed that Peg Cullane knew, or thought she knew, where the money was hidden. But why had she not gone after it? Was she afraid of him, or of Ben Janish? Did she hope to have all the money for herself? It took no weighing of motives to realize that whatever happened, Peg Cullane had not planned on sharing anything with anyone.
She was like the famous courtesans of history…not a passionate woman, but one who succeeded in appearing so; one who, beneath a passionate façade, was cold and calculating. Peg Cullane was hard as nails…he must never forget that. There was not an ounce of emotion in her, nor any mercy.
By daylight he was among the cedars along the lower slopes of the mountains, following a vague cow trail. He had escaped, or believed he had escaped, whoever might be following him…yet might not that suspicion be nothing but his own fears?
In a short time he dismounted and stripped the saddle from the dun. He let the horse roll, and then allowed it to crop grass and rest. After he had scanned the country about, he chose a place near the horse and stretched out on the grass, staring up at the sky.
He was a fool to go back. He should find some spring back in the mountains and just settle down. He could stay out of sight until all this was over, and then he could go back east, find a new home there.
Yet even as he told himself these things he knew he would not do them. Fan Davidge needed help, and that was where he was going.
He awoke with a start. The sun was high, but it was not the sun that awakened him, but the dun. The lineback’s head was up, ears pricked, and it was blowing gently through its nose.
He rolled over, grabbed his rifle
, and was in the brush in a plunging run…and ran squarely into them. There were three men, but his sudden charge had taken them by surprise as they were getting ready to surprise him.
His shoulder struck the nearest man, sending him careening into the second. Ruble Noon fired his Winchester from his hip, spinning the third man around, and then he was past them and into the rocks that lay beyond.
He hit the ground rolling, panting with shock and fear, and came up with his rifle. A bullet spat fragments of rock into his face, and he fired blindly, then fired again.
There was silence.
The men had disappeared into the brush, and he lay waiting for somebody to move, but nobody did.
Suddenly he heard a laugh, then after minutes had passed, a voice called out, “All right, you can stay there an’ rot. We’re takin’ your horse an’ outfit.”
He said nothing, knowing they were expecting him to speak; and after a while he peered cautiously from between the rocks. He saw no one…and the dun was gone. He stayed there quietly. An hour passed…then another. He judged the time by the shadow of a pine tree on the ground near him.
At last he came out from among the rocks. A quick checking of tracks convinced him. They had pulled out, no doubt believing him wounded, and they had taken his horse, saddle, and food. He had not even a canteen…nothing.
The nearest town would be on the railroad, perhaps forty miles away, and without doubt they would be right there waiting for him.
This was Apache country, and because of recent trouble most of the prospectors or ranchers had pulled out for Socorro or for some other town. Well, there was no sense in wasting time. If he was to get out alive he would have to start moving. First of all, he must find water, and he must find a horse.
He moved into the trees, found the trace of a game trail, and started along it, carrying his rifle at trail position, but ready to move swiftly into action. He followed the slope for perhaps an hour, pausing from time to time to check the country around him. His examinations were done with extreme caution, checking every possible hiding place. From time to time he changed his route to confuse any would-be ambusher.
Those men might have left merely to draw him out of his cover, or they might believe that he must, sooner or later, come down to try to get food.
The mountainside along which he was traveling was clad in pines, a scattered growth, thickening in places to solid stands. Higher up there were aspens. At first the mountain was a series of long swells, but as he moved on, these became steeper and the slope was broken by a number of deep arroyos. One of these he followed down toward the river for some distance, then worked his way up and out of it by way of a cutback toward the slope again. It meant extra going and a loss of time, but it would make him more difficult to find.
It was very hot, and presently he put a pebble in his mouth to start the saliva flowing, and moved on. He watched for the plants that indicate the presence of water, looked for the occasional rocky hollows where water might lie in a natural tank, even through the months. He found nothing.
He kept on, sometimes running a few steps, sometimes walking a few, and pausing often to check his surroundings. He was making good time, and time was important now.
The sun declined, shadows grew in the canyons, the slopes stood stark and clear in the evening light. He could see for miles over the country below, and far away he heard the whistle of a train, and made out the almost invisible trail of smoke. He felt sure they would be down there waiting. Suddenly a shack loomed before him and he flattened against the ground, almost too late. He saw a Mexican woman, a rider near her, talking. There were a few chickens, and his eyes searched for a dog, wanting to see the inevitable dog before it saw him.
The man’s head turned…Ruble Noon remembered the face, but from where he did not know. It was a narrow, cruel face with a thin-lipped mouth and a sharp jawline. The gun was tied low. The man turned his horse and rode away and the Mexican woman looked after him, then crossed herself.
Ruble Noon stood up. His muscles ached and his feet were tired. He desperately needed a horse, and he needed a drink.
The Mexican woman was still standing there. Only now she was not looking after the man who had ridden away; she was looking at, of all things, a parrot. It sat on a perch near her, its neck craning. The woman did not turn, but she spoke quietly. “Come, señor. It is safe now.”
He walked toward her, poised for trouble, but he believed her. He knew from his lost past that Mexicans befriended those in trouble.
She turned now and looked at him. “Pancho saw you. He saw you when that gringo was here.”
She said gringo with a particular inflection, and he grinned. “You could have told him.”
“I would tell him nothing! He is no good. I know that one—that was Lynch Manly.”
Ruble Noon looked after the gunman. Somehow he knew that if they had gone so far as to import Lynch Manly they were trying hard. He did not remember the details, but Manly was a noted man-hunter and a mankiller who had once been a Royal Northwest Mounted policeman, but he had been fired from the force for an unnecessary killing. Since then he had been a hired gunman for several cattle or mining outfits, and had a reputation as a badman.
Ruble Noon took a drink at the well, then followed the Mexican woman into the house. He washed his hands and face before sitting down at the table. She put food on the table, and poured out coffee. Sunlight fell through the windows, and he could hear the hens clucking in the yard. It was a pleasant, quiet place.
“I envy you,” he said.
She glanced at him. “When the Apache comes will you envy me? It is quiet then also—the quiet of death.”
“They come this far?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “They can…they have. Who knows what they will do?” She studied him. “You do not look like one to be feared.”
“Feared?”
“When they send so many after one, he must be someone feared. They search the towns, the ranches, even the huts along the Rio Grande.”
“There are many?”
“Twenty…or maybe more.”
“Yet you help me?”
She smiled. “I like a man who is feared. My husband is such a man.”
“He is here?”
“They have him in prison. They will hang him. He is Miguel Lebo.” She said it proudly, and with defiance.
“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 saloonke
eper 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 gunbelt 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.”
Novel 1970 - The Man Called Noon (v5.0) Page 9