The Man Called Noon (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 12

  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 hit 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 mile…but that was with a Sharps buffalo gun, a big .50.

  He climbed onto 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 down 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 14

  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 there 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 sidestepped 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.

  There was scarcely room for his body, but he knew how little it took to offer concealment. His rifle across his forearms, he crawled forward on his elbows. He could feel the dampness under his shirt, which meant that his wound had started bleeding again, and he knew he had not much time to get into better shelter.

  The shallow place into which he had dropped was only inches deep, but it ran along in the direction he was going. It deepened slightly, and he wormed along until he was within a few yards of the rocks along the far end. He came up with a lunge, and had made three long strides before they saw him.

  He heard the sound of a shot, but the bullet must have struck far behind him. The next shot was high, and then he was into the rocks.

  He lay down, gasping for breath, but quickly he worked himself up into a position to scan the open valley. It lay empty before him. Apparently they were no more anxious to attempt crossing that open grass than he had been…and he had been lucky.

  There was no time to do anything about his arm. He now had the desperate task of making his way through the rocks toward the cabin, and the approach was completely exposed. If anyone other than Fan awaited him there, he was a dead man.

  Slowly, painfully, sparing his wounded shoulder as much as he could, he worked his way among the rocks. Occasionally he was exposed, but there were no more shots. Either he was unseen, and they were deliberately allowing him to get to the cabin, or they had moved out to try to cross farther up, away from his line of fire, and so come down behind him.

  The sun was very hot. His throat was parched, and somehow he had hit his leg rather badly in falling among the rocks. Almost unnoticed at first, it was now giving him pain.

  He crawled on, fighting exhaustion and longing for a cool drink to ease his thirst. It seemed as if he had been running forever; he wanted only to get away, to find some cool, quiet place where he could fall asleep on the grass, but it was too late for that now. He had to fight, or die. But first he must do what had to be done.

  Between two fragments of rock, he scanned the valley again for a moment. Heat waves shimmered before his eyes. He blinked, and saw that they were still out there…four men, scattered out in a long skirmish line, but coming on.

  He might kill one of them, even two, but they would pin him down then, and kill him in their own time. None of the men out there seemed to be Judge Niland. Nor did he see Ben Janish.

  As he moved ahead he suddenly ran out from cover, but he did not hesitate. They would see him, but they must stop, throw up their rifles, and fire, and in that little time he could, with luck, cross the open space. Once into the brush and rocks, he could reach the cabin.

  He took off in a charging run. He had taken three long strides before the first bullet struck somewhere behind him. Another struck the rock just ahead of his feet with an angry splat; then a pebble rolled under the sole of his boot and he fell heavily, losing his hold on his rifle, which clattered away among the rocks.

  Another bullet sounded, and rock fragments stung his face. He scrambled up, lost his footing for a moment, then half stumbled into the brush and fell down, his breath tearing at his lungs, but there was no time to waste. He had no rifle now, and they would be closing in fast. He got to his feet and went on in a stumbling run.

  When he reached the shelf where the cabin stood he could hear them coming. He hit the shelf running, but slowed to a halt. He put his hand across his face, felt pain, and glanced down at the hand. It was badly lacerated from a fall on the rocks. He opened and closed it—the fingers were all right.

  Suddenly the door of the cabin came open and he heard Fan scream. “No! No!”

  A man with a broad, tough face and straight black brows stood before him. “Noon! I’m Mitt Ford! You killed—”

  Ruble Noon went for his gun. There was no moment to think, and his hand swept down and came up, and the heavy gun bucked with the roar of his first shot. He saw Mitt Ford back up a step, and then come on, his gun blazing. He was fanning his gun, and Ruble Noon thought, He’s a damned fool, even as he was shooting.

  Bullets sprayed around Noon, but he took the moment given him and put three bullets into the area around Mitt Ford’s navel.

  The gun spilled from Ford’s hand. He grabbed for it and fell, tried to rise, and fell again. There was a widening circle of blood on the back of Ford’s shirt.

  Ruble Noon moved swiftly to the door. Fan Davidge caught him and pulled him inside. Even as the door slammed, a bullet thudded against the wood.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quickly.

  “Yes, I’m all right. He…he just got here. He told me he was going to kill you.”

  Ruble Noon crossed over to the rifle rack and took down a Winchester. It was fully loaded. He reloaded his six-shooter, took up another gun belt, and strapped it on.

  After the sudden glare of the sun outside, the shadowed interior of the cabin had left Fan half-blind. Suddenly she saw the darkening stain around his shoulder.

  “You’re hurt!” she exclaimed.

  Driven to desperation by the loss of his rifle and the closeness of those behind him, he had forgotten about everything except getting a rifle in his hands once more. Now, seeing Fan again, he knew how much he wanted to live.

  “I’d better do something about it,” he said. He dropped into a chair from which he could look out. “I want a drink, too,” he added.

  “There’s coffee,” she said.

  “Water first.”

  Just sitting down, just resting there, relaxing for a minute, felt good. What he wanted most was a chance to lean back, to close his eyes. His lids were hot and his eyes were red-rimmed from the glare and from the wind.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “This is a trap.”

  “Wait. First I’ll see what I can do for your shoulder.”

  He looked at her. Worried as she was, she moved with no wasted motion. She brought hot water and cloths and, stripping off his shirt, she began to bathe the wound. The warm water felt good. She had gentle fingers and she worked very quickly.

  His eyes went from her to the window. The open area before them was empty, but
he knew the men were out there, scouting around. They had not discovered the place had only one approach. Soon they would know that, and they would begin shooting.

  Ruble Noon knew too much of shooting and too much of the actions of bullets to feel confident. In such a place, one did not need to have a target, did not need to see anyone. They had only to shoot inside, through the windows, and let the bullets ricochet.

  Many of the bullets would miss, but some would be pretty sure to hit. He had seen the wounds made by ricocheting bullets, bouncing from wall to wall, and cutting like jagged knives. A ricochet could rip a man wide open; any ricochet could make a nasty wound. He had seen it done.

  Presently he accepted a cup of coffee. He was well back inside, facing the window, and she was bandaging his wound before they appeared.

  It was Judge Niland who called out. “Ruble Noon, you haven’t got a chance! Come on out with your hands up, and we’ll make a deal!”

  He made no reply. Let them do the talking if they liked. He had nothing to talk about.

  “We know Fan Davidge is in there, and we know you’re wounded. You tell us where it is, and you can have an equal share.”

  “Equal to what?” he asked.

  “Share and share alike,” Niland said. His voice sounded nearer. If they tried rushing the place, they’d be fools. He could nail two or three of them before they got to the other wall.

  There was silence. Fan had finished bandaging the wound. He was studying the area before him. Everybody was out of sight, but that ricochet business could work two ways. It was mostly open country out there, with some scattered trees and a few boulders. It was only an outside chance that he could score a hit, but he could make them nervous.

  “Fan, put some grub together,” he said. “There’s some gunny sacks around. Get one of them and fill it with canned goods and whatever isn’t too heavy. Put in a side of bacon and some coffee.”

  She did not ask questions, but did what he suggested.