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

  He was fishing for a clue—any clue. But the old man merely shrugged. “Long as he had enough grub,” he said, “nobody was goin’ to get at him.”

  “I wonder how it was then,” Noon said. “Could he see very far? Were there many trees then?”

  The old man grunted. “He couldn’t see very far at no time. Did you ever look at them trees? Some of ’em must’ve growed right there for years an’ years. Even if he could’ve seen past that sycamore, he’d never see through that curtain of pines. Why, those pines must be two, three hundred years old!”

  “You mentioned that woman who’d been here. Did she ride toward the tree house? I mean, she might be there now, waiting for us.”

  “Not unless she circled around. She went off down the trail yonder. If she circled, she’d have to come up the draw an’ the lower end of that meadow.” He pointed. “An’ there ain’t much chance of that.”

  “Well,” Ruble Noon said. “we can ride over there without worrying too much. However,” he added casually, “we’d like to have the first chance to spot them. Is there any way of getting to the tree house without going the usual way?”

  “Might be,” the old man said. “I reckon a body could ride down past the barn yonder, then foller around the corral. That would keep him out of sight most of the way. Last few times he was here, Tom Davidge went thataway.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be back, but if anybody should ask, you haven’t seen anyone.”

  They mounted their horses and rode past the barn. “I was fishing,” Ruble commented. “I had no idea how to get there.”

  Beyond the corral they struck a dim trail into the bed of a stream that skirted the base of a cliff. When they had gone something less than a mile the stream curved away from the cliff; but against the cliff there was a wall of pines, and beyond the pines they could see the wide-spreading limbs of a huge old sycamore.

  Ruble Noon drew rein and listened. There was no sound except the wind in the trees, a faint rustling from the stream, and somewhere the sound of a walking horse—a horse that walked, then paused, then walked on again.

  On their right, under a slight overhang screened by the pines, was a place where horses had been tied, to judge by the droppings and the hoof marks. A pole had been notched into the rock wall to serve as a hitching rail.

  Ruble Noon swung down, then moved forward and leaned against a tree, looking toward the direction of the approaching horse.

  Fan Davidge got down quickly and moved toward the sycamore, which offered concealment enough for two people.

  Suddenly the rider came into sight—it was Miguel Lebo!

  Ruble Noon stepped into the open. “Miguel! What’s happened?”

  “They are coming, amigo. All of them. They rode out very suddenly this morning after they took much time to study a carta…a map, you know. I looked at it after they left, and it was a map of the rancho of Señor Davidge. It showed this place, and I hear one man say, ‘That must be where they go.’ And another say, ‘Then it is there.’ And then they all go to their horses to ride.

  “Henneker, he knows of this place, and he told me how to get here fast by the old outlaw trail, and I came. They are close behind me.”

  Ruble Noon turned quickly. “Fan…go into the tree house and search it. And see if there’s a way out. Lebo, duck into the rocks near the base of the tree. If worse comes to the worst, we’ll make our stand there.”

  Lebo was wearing two extra cartridge belts, and Ruble Noon dug into the grub sack for extra cartridges, refilling his pockets. Then he climbed the tree behind Fan and passed the grub sack to her.

  The gigantic sycamore had crushed itself against the rock wall, growing into a natural espalier that offered both a ladder giving access to the ledge, as well as a screen hiding the ancient cliff house behind it.

  Dropping back to the ground, he squatted on his heels beside Lebo. The Mexican tipped his hat back on his head and grinned at Noon.

  “Have any trouble at the ranch?” Noon asked.

  “There was nobody there, at first,” Lebo said. “Then a man came, a big blond young man. He thought the señorita was still there. Nobody had told him she was gone. He rode away then. I think,” Lebo added, “he had run into trouble on the mountain.”

  “You didn’t see Henneker or Billing?”

  “Only a Chinese cook who grumbled when he fed me, but who fed me well.”

  “How did you come to be here?”

  “I know of this place,” Lebo said. “Once, long ago when I was no more than fourteen years, I come here with my father. He was looking for gold. A long time ago, he said, the Spanish came here for gold, and some had been hidden, but we did not find any. But my father hid in this place”—he gestured toward the tree house—“when the Utes were nearby.”

  He dropped his cigarro into the dirt and rubbed it out with his toe. “Somebody comes,” he said.

  There were five in the group, and Peg Cullane was one of them. Judge Niland was beside her, and Ben Janish. Lyman Manly was there, and John Lang.

  Despite the miles she must have ridden, Peg Cullane looked neat, and as cool as ever. She drew up a short distance away and looked at Ruble Noon, who had gotten to his feet.

  “You should have listened when you had the chance,” she said. “Now you have no chance.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” he said coolly.

  “There are five of us,” she said.

  “But only one that’s you,” he replied calmly, “and that needs only one bullet.”

  “You’d shoot a woman?”

  He smiled. “You’ve chosen to play games with the boys, and when you do that, you accept the penalties. I see here only four men and one cold, treacherous wench who would betray her best friend for a dollar.”

  Her anger flared but he ignored her as she started to speak, and he said to the others, “I hope you’ve considered that. Whatever you might get out of this will be what she wants you to get, and that will be almighty little. Be sure of this: she’s already planned to have it all.”

  As he spoke he was thinking of Cagle and Bayles…where were they?

  Were they even now getting into position somewhere to attack him? Or were they her insurance of keeping the money after she had it? Did Judge Niland know of them? Did Janish?

  Another thought came to mind. Who had killed Dean Cullane? Was it Janish? He had believed so, but he was no longer sure….What about Judge Niland? It could be Niland.

  Miguel Lebo was out of sight, and it was doubtful if they even knew of his being in this region, for so much had happened so fast.

  Ruble Noon did not want a shooting, but if it had to be, he was prepared. He faced them, thinking coolly that he would have to take Janish first, though the others were just as dangerous. Niland, who was good in the woods and good with a rifle, might not be so good with a six-gun. Strangely, it was not Ben Janish who worried him so much as Lang, a cool, quiet man seemingly without nerves.

  “Give us the money,” Peg Cullane said, “and you can ride out of here.”

  Ruble Noon laughed. He could sense a change in himself, something brought about by the tension of the moment. He was ready, he was anxious for them to begin. He wanted them to open the ball. He wanted them to make a move.

  He took an easy step forward. “Well, boys, this is what you came to town for. This is what you carry your guns for. Somebody draws, somebody dies…maybe all of us. Who wants to start the music?”

  Lyman Manly edged to one side, easing his horse over, and Ruble Noon laughed at him. “Don’t try to get out of it, Manly. I could have had you back on the Rio Grande. I was standing right behind you when you were questioning Señora Lebo. I could have cut you in two, but I didn’t think it was worth it.”

  He wanted to make them uneasy, unsure. He wanted to worry them, to make them shoot too fast, be too ready
to turn….

  “You boy’s haven’t kept track of Arch Billing, have you? Or Henneker? That old coot is tougher than the lot of you, did you guess that? He’d take your hair and never give it a thought….Do you think we’re alone here? Just you five and me?”

  “He’s bluffing!” Niland said impatiently. Then he said, “Don’t be a fool! You’re an intelligent man. You’ve lost nothing here. You can go back to your own life, pick up where you left off, and nobody be the wiser. All you have to do is tell where the money is.”

  “You’d take it and run?” Ruble Noon smiled grimly. He was feeling good. He was ready for what was going to happen, and he wanted it to happen. Even as he thought that, he knew it was dangerous thinking. He was an intelligent man and, he hoped, a civilized one.

  The trouble was, he was facing a group of people who cared not one whit for the rights of others. They did not want peace, because they could profit by violence; and violence was their way. It was not a matter of what would happen, it was only when.

  They would like nothing better than for him to turn to walk away so they could shoot him in the back. But he had been pushed, hunted, driven, and now he would be driven no longer.

  Suddenly, in a clear, cool voice, Fan Davidge spoke behind him and from above. She would be on the ledge, aiming through the leaves. They could not even see her.

  “Ruble, you don’t have to shoot Peg. I’ll do it. If she makes a move toward a gun, I’ll shoot her right in the face. At this range I can’t miss.”

  He saw Peg’s features go taut. He saw her frightened look to left and right. Peg wanted to kill, not to be killed…or rather, she wanted the money, and she would not care at all who got killed as long as it was not herself. Now she was looking straight at the barrel of a rifle and she could not even see Fan Davidge.

  Ruble Noon gave a faint smile at the shock of surprise that went through them all—Fan was here! And if she was here, who else might be?

  “I’ll take Manly, amigo,” Lebo said then. “I want him first.”

  Another one! And this a voice they had never heard. A slight Spanish accent…a Spanish word…Judge Niland’s eyes were a little wider now.

  “There’s going to be some empty saddles tonight,” Ruble Noon said. “Everybody is spoken for but you, Ben, so that leaves you to me. And I owe you one. That bullet of yours gave me a few headaches….And by the way, was it you who murdered Dean Cullane? Or was it Niland?”

  Peg gave a quick, involuntary move to look at Ben Janish, and the gunman’s face went white. “Damn you, Noon!” he said. “I’m going to—”

  “Any time,” Noon said calmly. “Just any time.”

  “Wait!” There was sheer panic in Peg Cullane’s tone. She had no doubt that Fan would shoot her, because in Fan’s place she would certainly have shot, and Peg did not want to die.

  “We will ride off,” she said. “You win this round. But don’t think this is over.”

  “Ride,” Ruble Noon said. “You can all ride except Ben Janish.”

  “All right, Noon,” Janish said quietly, “if you want it that way.”

  “I do,” Noon said.

  The others were turning away, slowly so as not to attract a shot. There were men in the brush and trees, men in the cliff house, and they had no idea how many. But however many there were, none but Noon presented a target for them. They might kill him, but they would be shot to pieces themselves.

  “I’m on the ground, Ben,” Noon said quietly. “You might as well get down. After I kill you, I don’t want them saying I took advantage.”

  Ben Janish stared at him. Then he carefully gathered the reins in his left hand.

  He will throw his leg over, hit the ground in a crouch, and shoot under the horse’s belly, Ruble Noon told himself.

  Janish threw the leg over, dropped to the ground, and Noon’s first bullet struck his thigh at the hipbone, and turned Janish halfway around.

  The frightened horse leaped away, and Ben Janish swore and swung around to bring his gun to bear.

  Ruble Noon faced him, standing wide-legged and ready, and as the gunman came full toward him, his gun swinging across his body to fire, Ruble Noon shot quickly.

  One! Two!…Three!

  Ben Janish was on the ground, his gun three inches from his hand, and he was dead.

  As the others went across the meadow and into the trees, Lang turned in his saddle and lifted a hand.

  And then the meadow was empty, and Miguel Lebo came from behind the tree and lowered his rifle.

  “You are quick, amigo. Very quick!”

  CHAPTER 18

  RUBLE NOON TURNED quickly and walked toward the sycamore. Over his shoulder he said, “Lebo, get the horses, will you? We’ve got to get out of here.”

  He climbed up to the tree house. Fan Davidge was standing in the middle of the larger room, hands on her hips, looking around. Her Winchester lay across the table.

  “I can’t find it. If it is here, I simply can’t find it,” she said.

  But it had to be here, he was sure. He stood there and looked around slowly. Half a million in gold or bills, or in negotiable securities, was quite a packet.

  The outer wall of the house against which the tree grew was some thirty feet above the ground. The house was actually a wind-hollowed cave, like many of those in Mesa Verde, and the builders had simply walled up the opening, leaving a space for a small door.

  The roof of the cave arched overhead, smooth as if polished by hand, and at his left it sloped down in a pleasant arch, under which was the bed. On his right a trickle of water came out of a crack and ran along the base of the wall for a few feet before falling into a crack in the cave floor.

  Besides the bed, there were a table, a couple of chairs made from tree limbs, and a shelf supported by pegs driven into holes in the wall. The floor was solid rock.

  The back wall was a man-made partition of stone, with a door at the right. He could see where the older stonework had been repaired and added to by skillful hands.

  “What’s back there?” he asked, pointing to the door. “Have you looked?”

  “You can see for yourself. There’s a fireplace, and there’s a hole in the roof.”

  He went back into the smaller cave. Here was a fireplace with a large stack of wood beside it. There were several iron kettles, an axe, some tongs, and a couple of old-fashioned bullet molds, each capable of making a dozen lead balls at a time.

  Against the rock wall was an old canvas sack. He opened it and thrust his hand in. Bullets made from the mold were there, of the type used in the old muskets. He had not seen anything of the kind in years. They ran, as he recalled, sixteen to the pound; but the only musket in the cave had rusted from disuse.

  He prowled around, glancing up several times at the hole in the roof. On the floor underneath it a couple of notches had been cut, obviously for the legs of a ladder.

  He found several more sacks of the bullets. The man who had sought refuge in this cave had prepared himself for a stand if the Utes ever located him. No doubt he had made his own powder, too, and he had probably used a bow and arrow for most of his hunting, saving the lead balls for the Indians.

  Where could anyone conceal half a million dollars in such a place? But did he really know it was half a million? Such figures are usually exaggerated…buried treasures always grew as the story was repeated. He searched carefully, but he could find nothing.

  The partition wall intrigued him…it was thicker than need be—measuring at least twenty inches thick. He scanned it, looking for anything that appeared to be new work. Suddenly he found a place where there was little dust, and no cobwebs such as gather in the interstices between stone-laid walls. He worked a stone loose, and after a few minutes of jiggling it about, he found that it slid easily from its niche.

  Behind it was a black metal box. With Fan
at his elbow, he drew the box out. It opened easily. Inside were several deeds to lands, mostly in the East, and at the bottom of the box were ten tight rolls—thick rolls—of bills! Greenbacks…and they were large bills. Nothing else was in the hole.

  “Fan,” he said, “there’s a good bit of money there. Maybe it’s the lot.”

  “We’d better go,” she said. “They will surely be back.”

  He stuffed the bills and deeds into his pocket, but left the box on the table where anyone could see it.

  They went out, pulled the door shut, and slid to the ground. Miguel Lebo was waiting with the horses. “Did you find anything?” he asked.

  “Yes…though not as much as we expected.” He swung into the saddle. “Now, if we had a couple of old muskets I’d say this would be a great place to fight it out. There’s enough ammunition up there for an army.”

  “Ammunition?”

  “Ball ammunition…for muzzle-loaders.”

  Lebo looked puzzled. “I don’t remember any ammunition. I would have remembered, wouldn’t I?”

  Ruble Noon swung down quickly and ran for the tree. “Lebo,” he said, “get over to the ranch, get a couple of pack horses and get them fast—and pack saddles if you can get them. Don’t waste time!”

  “What is it?” Fan asked.

  “Those musket balls, damn it! They’re gold!”

  He climbed the tree, and inside the tree house he hastily cut into one of the balls with his knife.

  Gold, bright and pure!

  There were eight sacks, two of them hidden in a recess behind the pile. He lowered them down with a rope.

  When Lebo came racing back with the horses and pack saddles they filled them with the balls of gold. Within minutes they were moving.

  Lebo pulled up beside Noon. “Where to?”

  “Denver. There isn’t a bank this side of there where this gold would be safe.”

  “That’s a ride. It must be four hundred miles. Where can we hit the railroad? At Durango?”

  Ruble Noon hesitated. “Too close, I think,” he said. “How about Alamosa?”