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

  There were clues…one was the recognition of the dun’s brand as from the Cherokee Nation, which was an outlaws’ hangout. The one thing he was sure of was that Ben Janish must know who he was and why he was to be killed.

  And there were the letters and the legal document in his pocket, which so far he had not had a chance to examine.

  Was he Dean Cullane? The letters he had found in his pocket, addressed to that name, would make it seem so, but somehow he was uneasy over the name. Might he have stolen them? Or offered to carry them for Cullane? None of the reasons he could think of made much sense.

  He was feeling restless. His headache had dulled to a persistent throb that kept him on edge, and he was in no mood to be with people. He needed to get off by himself, to think, to plan, to try to find a way out.

  Ben Janish would soon be coming to the ranch, and Ben would no doubt try to finish what he had begun. But what would be his reaction when he found the man he had tried to kill waiting for him?

  Fan came into the room. “If you want to ride and you think you can handle that dun, you might check out my beef for me. I’d like to get an idea what there is that’s ready to ship.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, rising. “I don’t know what I know about cattle. Or even if I can ride.”

  “If you can ride that dun you’re a better man than Kissling or Cherry. He threw both of them.”

  Several spare ropes hung in the blacksmith shop which occupied a corner of the barn. He chose one and went to the corral. Could he use a rope? It felt natural in his hands, and he supposed he could.

  Rimes was close by when he let himself into the corral and faced the horses. They circled warily, keeping away from him.

  He looked at the dun and held out his hand. “Come here, boy,” he said, and the dun came.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Rimes muttered. “I never saw the like.”

  Kissling had come out of the bunkhouse, and he stood watching. Henneker, who had come riding up on a sorrel pony, stopped near Fan. “Now there’s a funny thing,” he said to her. “That horse knows him.”

  “But how could it? He just got here, and that horse was a stray we picked up on the winter range.”

  “Sure, I brought him in,” Henneker said dryly, “but I still say that horse knows him. Ma’am, something’s wrong here, almighty wrong.”

  The old man looked down at her suddenly. “Don’t you go gettin’ any case on that man, ma’am. He’s a bad one.”

  “The dun doesn’t think so,” she replied.

  Henneker snorted, and rode toward the corral.

  The man who called himself Jonas walked the horse out of the corral holding its mane, then saddled up. As he moved he tried just to be guided by those automatic movements that seemed not to have been affected by his accident.

  When he had finished saddling the horse Fan Davidge had come up close behind him. “Jonas, who are you? Why are you here?” she asked.

  She had spoken in a low tone, and he responded in the same way. “You know as much as I do. As far as I know, my life began half an hour or so before I got on the train where Rimes found me. That’s all I know.”

  When he had mounted the horse he rode off without the dun so much as humping its back. She watched him go, sitting erect in the saddle, a handsome figure of a man. Then she walked back to the house, where Arch Billing was waiting.

  “Arch, you don’t suppose he’s a government man?”

  “How could that be?”

  “Wells Fargo might have trailed some of them. He might be a United States marshal. He told me the dun’s brand was from the Cherokee Nation.”

  “You mean you think he’s one of those Judge Parker gunslingin’ marshals workin’ out of Fort Smith? That’s a long way off.”

  “He could be from Denver or El Paso.”

  “Don’t you believe it. Ma’am, he’s a bad one, and I’d stake my life on it. Did Hen tell you what he did to Kissling?”

  “Kissling had it coming.”

  “It was the way he did it. Like a man slapping a boy around. Kissling didn’t worry him, not for one minute. He never even got to his feet, and he nearly killed the man. And you know something else? He didn’t care. He just didn’t care one way or t’other.”

  For several minutes neither spoke, and then it was Arch who said, “We’ve been used by Ben Janish and his outlaws, so maybe we can use this stranger. Maybe this man is the one to rid us of Janish.”

  “How?”

  “He’s a loner. You can see that. He came out here for something, we don’t know what, but he don’t care whether school keeps or not. The way he sizes up to me, he’s the kind would charge hell with a bucket of water.”

  “Ben Janish would kill him.”

  “And he might kill Janish. They might even kill each other.”

  “Is that what you’re hoping?”

  “Ma’am, I never had no family. None but you and your pa. All I want is to see you with this here ranch and free of them. I’d like to see you with a man…the right kind of man.”

  “Thanks, Arch.” After a pause she said, “I don’t want him killed.”

  He looked at her. “Ma’am…don’t. He’s a bad one. I can tell.”

  “Just the same, I don’t want him killed.”

  The man who called himself Jonas rode toward the mountains. He reached for the gun in its holster and it slid easily into his hand…too easily.

  He reholstered the gun and thought about his problem. There had to be a record. When a man turned up missing inquiries were made—unless he was one of those footloose ones with nobody to care. But somebody, somewhere, would know.

  He was feeling better. To wait here for Ben Janish was foolish. What he must do now was to get away, to find out something about himself, to discover who he was and why he had been where he was, and why Ben Janish had tried to kill him.

  He rode across the flat valley floor, where the pasture was good. The stock he saw was in good shape, much of it ready for shipping, but it was high time some of the older stuff was moved out.

  There was plenty of water in the several streams running down from the mountains, and he could foresee only two problems for the ranch. The first was the necessity for shipping. Unless the older steers were moved out and sold soon, the range would be overstocked and soon overgrazed. The second problem was the question of winter feed. Unless a lot of hay was cut they were going to have a time getting through the winter.

  On thin snow most of the stock would do all right. They would be able to get at the grass for limited grazing, but if there was any kind of a fall of snow the canyons would be snowed in and much of the range would be covered too deep. The outlaws were good hands up to a point, but they had no interest in the cattle, and they did not relish the idea of cutting and stacking hay—hard work at best.

  Nevertheless, with a few hands and some supervision the ranch would be a good operation. Because of the natural fencing offered by the mountains the stock could be controlled with no difficulty. Only at roundup time would they need outside help.

  The dun was a fast walker, and they were making good time. Looking ahead he could see no way out for a man on horseback, and only a possibility for a man afoot. The mountain before him rose in a rugged, tree-and brush-clad slope so steep a man would have to cling to the brush to climb up its side.

  When he came close to the mountain he turned the dun and rode along its base, studying the ground. If there was a way out, some of the stock would have found it, or at least wild animals would have done so. He had seen a few deer tracks…where had they come from?

  Deer, unless driven by fire or by drought, will rarely get more than a mile or two from the area where they are born. Usually they sleep in an open place somewhere up on a slope, and shortly before daybreak they feed down toward water, drink, idle about a bit, an
d gradually feed back up the slope. This valley might be home to them, but they might have found a trail to somewhere high up on the mountain.

  Riding a horse alone, as Jonas was doing now, was a time for thinking, and again his thoughts returned to his problem. The questions remained. Who was he? What was he? Where was he from?

  Although he had no memory, he realized that he did have his habit responses, and this could offer a clue. Suppose he began to test himself little by little, trying different things to find out the range of his skills?

  He had already discovered that if he let himself go without trying to direct his actions he functioned fairly well. When he had saddled the dun he deliberately allowed his muscles free rein and he had worked with practiced ease. And now he thought about the dun.

  Why had the horse come to him so easily? Had he known the horse before? Had it, perhaps, belonged to him at some time? He remembered that the old man, Henneker, had said he was a bad one. Was he? Searching himself, he could find no such motivations. He felt no animosity toward anyone, nor any desire to do evil.

  Yet, did evil men ever think of themselves as evil? Did they not find excuses for the wrong they did?

  He noticed the deer tracks without paying much attention, his thoughts busy elsewhere. Only when a second set of tracks joined the first did his mind really focus on the matter. Deer were creatures of habit, he knew, more so than men. The tracks of the first deer were several days old; the tracks of the second had been made that morning.

  They disappeared suddenly, near the mouth of a canyon, but search as he might he could not find them entering the canyon. Knowing, from some bygone store of knowledge, that quite often a human or game trail will skirt the edge of a canyon, he rode back and studied the approaches to the canyon.

  At first he found nothing, but he persisted, and after nearly an hour of searching he found where a vague trail went between two close-set clumps of cedar, rounded a boulder that appeared to block any progress in that direction, and went upward under the pines.

  It was at that moment he thought of the letters.

  CHAPTER 5

  HE DREW UP in the shade of some pines near the trail and took the letters from his pocket. Both were addressed to Dean Cullane, El Paso, Texas. The first was short and to the point.

  The man I am sending is the best. He knows what to do and how to do it. Do not interfere or try to communicate with him.

  Matherbee

  The second letter, posted a few weeks later, was from the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

  Our investigation has, I regret to say, been inconclusive. The man of whom you require information first appeared in Missouri, where he was reported to have arrived on a freight train. He worked there for a tie-cutting camp, where he became involved in a brawl with two men, who were beaten severely. The first shooting of which we have record took place a few weeks later in a saloon when a trouble-hunting outlaw from down in the Nation started a fight.

  Both men went for their guns, and the outlaw, who had quite a reputation, came out a poor second. It is reported that a cattleman was in the saloon, saw the action, and later had a talk with the man you are interested in, whose name is reported to be Ruble Noon.

  The next day Noon bought a complete outfit, including a horse and several hundred rounds of ammunition, and then he drifted.

  Stories get around. The report is that this cattleman had been having rustler trouble, he had lost stock, and one of his hands had been murdered after apparently coming upon some brand blotters. That was in western Nebraska.

  Ruble Noon was not seen around, but a few days later one of the rustlers was found dead in his cabin, a gun in his hand that had been fired once.

  A few days later two of the others were found dead on the plains covered by the hide of a steer with a brand half blotted. Both men were shot from in front, both were armed.

  A few days later the last of the rustlers, three in number, were seated at their fire. They were in possession of thirty head of stolen cattle.

  A man stepped from the trees about sixty feet away. He said, “I am Ruble Noon, and I killed Maxwell.”

  They’d been saying what they would do if they caught him, and he had come to them. They went for their guns. Two died before they could get off a shot, but the third, one Mitt Ford, got into the brush, tried a shot from there. The answering shots burned his shoulder and wounded him in the side, and he got away, fast.

  Mitt Ford told the story. He had not got a good look at Noon, for he was standing against a wall of tall trees, his hat pulled low. All Mitt could say was that he was tall, slim, and hell on wheels with a gun.

  There was an express company up Montana way. Too many holdups. They hired Noon. When the next holdup took place somebody shot from the brush and there were three dead outlaws. No more holdups on that line.

  There was more. He scanned the report with care. Ruble Noon had apparently only one contact, the cattleman who first hired him. This man acted as go-between in every case, and there had been a dozen more cases, from Canada to Mexico. There was no description beyond that given by Mitt Ford, and the tie-cutting outfit had scattered. The cattleman claimed to know nothing about him.

  There was one final note. The cattleman in question had at one time made a cattle drive with Tom Davidge. They had been friends.

  Ruble Noon folded the letters and returned them to his inside pocket. The legal document was a deed to three hundred and twenty acres of land and a cabin; it was made out to Ruble Noon and signed by Tom Davidge. Appended to the document was a small hand-drawn map showing how to get to the property.

  The dun was growing restive, and he started on, knowing no more about himself than before.

  The letters and the document had been in the possession of one Dean Cullane, of El Paso, whoever he was. Why did Cullane have a deed destined for Ruble Noon? Were Cullane and Noon the same man? It seemed doubtful.

  Was he Cullane? Or was he Noon? Or was he neither one?

  Slipping off the coat he was wearing, he checked it with care. The sleeves were too short, and the shoulders too narrow, though not by much. The coat was tailored, not a ready-made.

  “Tailored,” he said aloud, “but not for me.” He knew he would never have accepted a coat that fitted so badly. If the coat was not his, it must be Dean Cullane’s, for the letters were addressed to him….Or could the coat belong to Ruble Noon? For the deed had been there, too.

  Was there any way in which he could discover who Ruble Noon was? Or Dean Cullane? Or Matherbee? He looked again at the map. Only a few lines on a bit of paper, but that X might be this very ranch, and the dotted line could be that faint trail he had discovered.

  Why had Ruble Noon a ranch in the area? What was his connection with Tom Davidge? He had no answers—nothing but questions.

  He was hungry, and he had not thought to bring food with him. But he did not want to go back now. There was too much to think about, too much to decide. And he did not know what awaited him back at the ranch…Ben Janish might have returned, and it was Ben Janish who had tried to kill him.

  He swung his horse around, returned to the trail, and turned the dun up the mountain. After a dozen quick, tight turns they began to wind through the forest, climbing steadily. The mountain was steep, but the deer had found a way to the meadows below. There were no horse tracks on the trail, only those of deer.

  He kept on, studying the country as he rode. The growth was so thick that only occasionally could he see the ranch or the valley below him. He followed the dim, narrow trail back and forth up the steep scarp until suddenly a notch in the mountain, invisible from below, opened before him.

  The dun went forward slowly, ears pricked with curiosity. The notch opened after some hundred yards into a long trough down which a stream ran. It was high grassland, the slopes covered with pines, and about a quarter of a
mile away he could see a small cabin, perched on a shelf among the trees.

  There was no sound, nor any sign of life there. Above on the mountain a rock cropped out, bare and cold against the sky; below it only a few straggling pines, wind-torn and twisted, stretched black, thin arms against the sky.

  It was a lonely place where the shadows came early and where cold winds blew off the ridges. Who had found this spot? Above all, who had thought to build here, under the bleak sky? On any cloudy day the place must be filled with damp, clinging gray clouds, and thunder must roll down this narrow valley, leaving the air charged and smelling of brimstone. It was a place of bitter solitude…yet somehow it appealed to him, somehow he knew this was his place, where he belonged.

  The only sound was that of the dun’s hoofs in the tall grass, and occasionally the click of a hoof against stone.

  He went up the trail to the shelf and stopped before the cabin.

  It was built against a wall of rock, sheltered half beneath the overhang, and was of native stone, the cold gray rocks gathered from the foot of the cliff. It had been built a long time ago.

  No mortar had been used, only stone wedded to stone, but cunningly, skillfully done by the hands of a master. The stones had taken on the patina of years, and the heavy wooden bench made of a split log was polished as if from much use. A stable backed against the wall where the fireplace stood so heat from the fire would help to warm the stable. A passage led from the house into the stable, and a stack of wood stood high against the stable walls.

  Dismounting, he tied the dun to a post and went up to the door. It opened under his hand, and he stepped in.

  He had expected nothing like this. The floor was carpeted with skins, the skins of bear and mountain lion. There was a wall of books, a writing table, and a gunrack holding a dozen rifles and shotguns.

  In another smaller room there was a store of canned goods and other supplies. These things had never arrived over the trail by which he had come; therefore there must be another and better route.