the Man Called Noon (1970) (11 page)

A half-million - that was more money than he could imagine. It was true that Fan had the ranch, or would have it after he killed Ben Janish ... if he killed him. But that was just it. He could not take the money unless he left her with something, with the ranch. If he killed Ben Janish she would be free - she'd have it then.

. But suppose Janish killed him? What had happened back there in that nameless town? How had Janish shot at him without his knowing? How had Janish almost killed him?

Of course, he'd been warned. Dean Cullane had warned him.

Well, there was no use his thinking about it; he would not kill Ben Janish. The man who was willing to kill was in another life; now he did not want to kill. Anyway, he did not know where the money was. If he had ever known, he did not know now. He stood up. "I've got miles to go," he said.

"You'd best be careful. Don't you low-rate that girl. Peg is sly as a fox-I've seen it before this. And she's cold. She'll have her boys out looking for you."

"Who were those men?" Ruble Noon asked. "Some of the town boys, and some from ranches around," Niland answered. "They set store by her; she's the belle of the country around. Those boys will do anything for her, though some of them are decent enough lads. You be careful now."

Ruble Noon paused at the door. "You going back by trail?" the Judge asked.

Noon shrugged, and did not really answer the question. "There's always the railroad. Tom Davidge owned stock in it, you know. He financed the building of a good part of it, and brought others in to do the rest. And they stood by him, that lot. They'd do anything for old Tom."

He added, "It will take time, Judge. Ben Janish is no fool."

"You bring it here," Niland said. "Right here to me, but come by night. If nobody knows we're acquainted - it will help."

When Ruble Noon stepped outside the dark doorway he stood still for a moment, listening. Sometimes it seemed that he had been living in a dream from which he might wake up at any moment. He kept expecting to wake up.

He moved away from the door, but did not go to the gate. Instead, he walked along the hedge to the place where he remembered there was a small gap. Easing through it, he crossed the yard in the darkness, and reached a street. He went on until he came to the stable where he had left his horse.

Not until he was settling down to sleep in the hay did he remember: He had forgotten to get the talk around to Jonas Mandrin.

Who was Jonas Mandrin? How did he fit into the life of Ruble Noon?

He awoke to the sound of rain, and for a moment he lay still, listening. Suddenly he heard a low voice calling, calling very softly. " Senor? Senor?"

"Si?"

"I think they look for you, Senor. It is better you go now."

Ruble Noon stood up and brushed the hay from his clothes, eased his gun into position, and came down the ladder from the loft.

"They have not come here yet," the Mexican said, "but they look on another street. I see them." He had already saddled the roan.

"Is there a way out of here, keeping off the streets?"

The Mexican squatted on his heels and traced in the dust with his finger. "Between the adobes ... see? Then around the house of Alvarado ... past the barn and into the brush. I wish you luck, Senor."

Ruble Noon led the horse to the back door and stepped into the saddle. The rain was falling harder now.

The Mexican went to the small room and took a poncho from a nail. "Here, take this ... I will pay. And go with God."

Ruble Noon took a gold eagle from bis pocket and handed it to him. "Don't spend it for a few days, amigo. They might guess where it came from."

He walked the horse through the door, then cantered along the route the Mexican had indicated. The poncho was merely a thickly woven blanket, with a hole in the center for his head. Wearing the wide-brimmed hat, he might easily pass for a Mexican.

Outside of town he took to the brush. Weaving his way through mesquite thickets, he made for the railroad. The rain fell steadily, and it was likely that whatever trail he left would soon be wiped out. Several times he drew up in the partial shelter of trees to study his back trail, but he saw no one, and of course there was no dust. But visibility was not good, and it made him uneasy.

It was out of the question to return to the ranch after the recent ambush there, so he took a trail northward toward Mesilla. His every instinct was to run and hide, to hole up somewhere and wait until he could sort out his knowledge and his feelings, to come nearer to discovering more about himself.

He must have been a killer, but before that he had been somebody else, somewhere else. Suddenly he thought of newspaper files. If he could go through the files he might find in one of the back issues some report of himself, or some information about Jonas Mandrin. But he must proceed very carefully. He might be known in Mesilla.

It was past nine o'clock when he rode into the quiet town near the Rio Grande. A few lights showed from the doors of saloons, and here and there men were seated on benches or chairs along the boardwalk. One chair was in front of the newspaper office.

He drew up and stepped down from the saddle, and a man seated there looked up curiously.

Ruble Noon knew that this was a time in which to be wary. The Lincoln County war was playing itself out, the warriors were beginning to drift to more healthful climes, but haphazard violence continued. Solitary riders were apt to be regarded with some suspicion until there destinations and intentions became clear.

He looked up the quiet street. He would have liked to sit in one of those chairs himself, listening to the sound of voices, waiting to go to bed until the night had cooled somewhat.

"A pleasant evening," he said. "You're not working?" he asked. He was taking it for granted that the man belonged on the newspaper.

"No. This is a case when no news is good news," the man said. His voice sounded young. "Riding through?"

"As a matter of fact, I was going to ask if I might go over the files of your papers. Last year, maybe, or the year before."

"Now, that's the first time I've been asked that." The newspaper man sat up. "Not many people care what happened that long ago. Anything I can help you with? I've a good memory." He stood at the door of the office.

"Hell, no. To tell you the truth, I was just wanting to get the feel of the country. You know, a man can read a lot between the lines of a newspaper, and I want to see what goes on around."

"Help yourself. Try that set of drawers over there."

"Do you copy much news from out of town? Or much eastern news?"

The man's attention suddenly became sharper. "Ocassionally," he said. "If it has any local connection we do, or if it is of major interest. Once in a while we use eastern or California stuff just to fill in space. Local news usually gets around by grapevine before we can print it."

Ruble Noon went inside and took out the first sheaf of newspapers from the drawer. Settling down near the light, he began to scan the pages.

Outside, the printer turned a little in his chair. His attention had been arrested by the use of the word "copy." It was a newspaperman's use of the word. He had heard it used in this way many times in the East, but rarely west of the Mississippi.

That did not imply that this stranger had been a newspaperman, but he had seen a good many of them drifting along the trails - more since the railroad had come in a few months back. Mallory himself was a tramp printer who had worked on more than a dozen newspapers, and not so much as a year on any of them after his first, when he was fourteen. He had worked in big towns and small ones, but he preferred the little towns, and the western ones.

He had been in Mesilla for only three months now, but he was about ready to drift. He was going to try Santa Fe next, or perhaps go to Arizona. He lighted his pipe and tipped back his chair. This stranger, now ... what he had said was true: the best way to make a quick judgment of a town was through its newspaper, to read the advertisements, the news items on local issues ... but Mallory did not for a minute believe this man was interested in settling in Mesilla.

The fact was that Las Cruces was the coming town. Since the railroad had come to Las Cruces the population here had fallen off a little, and the center of activity seemed to be shifting. For himself, he liked Mesilla.

He stoked his pipe again, and glanced around, hitching his chair a little to watch the stranger, who had finished one sheaf of papers and gone on to another. He was scanning the paper with a rapidity that Mallory envied. He was obviously looking for something particular, and he seemed to be checking most of the items.

The difficulty was that Ruble Noon did not himself know what he was looking for. Some mention of Jonas Mandrin, perhaps, or some news story that might jog his memory, some clue from the tune before he was shot. He was trying to eliminate all items that offered no interest, reading more carefully those items that might provide him with the information he wanted.

He was on the fourth sheaf of newspapers and it was almost midnight when he found an item tucked away in a corner of the newspaper.

DISAPPEARANCEThe $500 reward offered for information as to the whereabouts of Jonas Mandrin has been withdrawn, as Mandrin, who disappeared two years ago, is presumed dead. Mandrin, despondent after the murder of his wife and child during his absence in New York, was reported seen in St. Louis and in Memphis, but then dropped from sight.

A noted hunter of big game and a crack shot, he was president of the newly founded Mandrin Arms Co. of Louisville. He had formerly been a correspondent for various newspapers and magazines in both the United States and Europe. The discovery of several items of clothing and letters has led to the belief that Jonas Mandrin is dead.

Ruble Noon sat very still, staring at the item. The newspaper he held in his hands was five years old, and Jonas Mandrin had disappeared two years prior to that time. The man known as Ruble Noon had appeared in a Missouri tie-camp about a year after the disappearance. It all seemed to fit nicely.

Was he Jonas Mandrin? If so, what led Jonas Mandrin, a sportsman and businessman, to become Ruble Noon, the mankiller?

He returned the papers to the filing cabinet, and went to the door.

"Find what you wanted?" Mallory asked.

Ruble Noon took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, it seems like a good place," he said, "although the railroad will make a difference."

He stepped into the saddle and started down the street, looking for a livery stable.

Mallory got up and went inside. He took down the first sheaf of papers and leafed through them, checking item after item. But it was not until the next day when he returned to the task that he at last found the item about Jonas Mandrin.

He sat back, considering. The reward had been withdrawn, but there might still be somebody who would pay for information. It was worth a chance.

If not worth five hundred dollars, it might be worth a hundred or more even now. He pulled a sheet of paper across the desk and picked up his pen.

Ruble Noon awoke in his hotel room in the cool hours of morning, and lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. He had the decision clear in his mind that he would return to the Rafter D. Once there, he would face the issues as they developed.

If he had been the man called Jonas Mandrin, he did not know it or feel it. If he had had a wife and child, he had no memory of them. Was his amnesia a curtain to protect him from the destruction that might be wrought by shock and grief?

If he was Jonas Mandrin, had he come west to escape from his memories? Or had he hoped to find the men who had killed his family? If it was the latter case they were safe from him, for he had no details, nothing.

But how had Judge Niland guessed he was Mandrin merely by the use of the name? Or had he known Mandrin at some earlier time, or known of him?

He swung his feet to the floor and dressed quickly, trimmed his beard, and combed his hair. In the dining room he ate a quick breakfast, picked up a lunch he had packed for him, and headed out of town at a fast gallop.

He could have caught the tram at Las Graces, 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, senor?"