Luckily, he had glimpsed the Indians at the same time they saw him. He had reached the rocks around the water hole just in time. He shot the nearest Indian from the saddle and the rest of them went to the ground. Noble got the mule down on its side and out of rifle range. He readied his Winchester and reloaded his six-gun.
It was a long, slow, hot afternoon. There was no water nearer than fifteen miles except what lay in the water hole behind him. He knew that and so did the Piutes, only he had the water and they did not.
Sweat trickled down the big man’s neck. He took a pull at his canteen and put a reassuring hand on the mule. The animal had been trained from birth for just this eventuality and lay quiet now.
They came suddenly and with a rush and Noble took his time. He dropped one, then switched his rifle and missed a shot as they disappeared.
There were at least five Indians still out there. A buzzard soared expectantly overhead. He moved suddenly, further into the rocks and only in time. A warrior, knife in hand, dove at him from a rock and Noble threw up a hand, grasping the Indian’s knife wrist and literally throwing the man to the ground near the pool.
Noble put a gun on him and the Indian looked up at him, judging his chances. “No good,” Noble said. “You,” he gestured, “drink!”
The Indian hesitated. “Drink, damn you!” And the Indian did, then again.
“Now get up and get out. Tell them to leave me alone. I want no trouble, do you hear? No trouble.
“You steal even one head from me and I’ll hunt you down and kill you all.” How much the Indian understood he had no idea. “Now go!”
They went, wanting no more of this big man who lived alone.
Noble returned to his work. There were more trees to plant, a vegetable garden to fence, traps to be set for rabbits that were playing havoc with his crops.
Four days later, as if testing him, he found several steers driven off and tracked them to their camp. They had eaten heavily and were sleeping, doubting one lone man would attempt to pursue them.
He went into their camp on cat feet. He gathered their rifles and was taking a pistol from one of them when the man awakened. His eyes riveted on Noble’s face and he started a yell, but the pistol barrel across his head stopped it.
Walking out of their camp he gathered their horses and led them to where his horse waited. Surprisingly, they were still asleep. Perhaps somewhere in their raiding they had found some whiskey, for they slept too soundly.
Picking up an armful of brush he tossed it on the fire and at the first crackle of flame they came awake. He was waiting for them with a gun in his hand.
They started to rise and he shouted, “No! You stay!”
They waited, watching him. They were tough men, and thank God, one of them was old enough to have judgment. “No trouble!” he reiterated. “I want no trouble!”
“My cow,” he gestured, “all mine! You go now. Don’t come back!”
The oldest of the warriors looked up at him. “You say we come again, you kill all.”
“I don’t want to kill. White Stone Calf is my friend. You can be friend also.”
“You say you kill. Can you kill me?”
“I can kill you. I do not wish to. I am a man who plants trees. I grow corn. If an Indian is hungry, I will feed him. If he is sick, I will try to make him well, but he harms my crops, if he attacks me or steals my cows or horses, I will kill him. Some have already died, how many must die before you understand me?”
“We will go,” the Indian said. “You will give us our horses?”
“I will not. You have taken my time. I take your horses. Next time I shall take more horses. You go. If you come again, come in peace or I will follow to your village and many will die.”
The following year there were two raids into the area, but they rode around the big man’s land; and when the next winter was hard and the snows were heavy and icy winds prowled the canyons he rode into their village, and they watched him come.
He brought sides of beef and a sack of flour. He rode to the Indian to whom he had talked and dropped them into the snow before him. “No trouble,” he said, “I am friend.”
He turned and rode away, and they watched him go.
Giddings stopped again at the McGann home. “Dropped by to buy some stock from that Noble feller. Got fifty head of good beef from him. I reckon he’s got at least three hundred head of young stuff, and he’s kept a few cows fresh for milking.”
“Did you say milking?” McGann was incredulous. “I never heard of a man milkin’ a cow west of the Rockies.”
“He’s doing it.” Giddings glanced slyly at Ruth. “He says women folks set store by milk cows. Gives ’em real butter and cream. For a woman who bakes, he says, that’s a big help.”
Ruth seemed not to hear, continuing with her sewing.
“His cherry trees are growing, and they look mighty nice. Long rows of them. He’s put in a kitchen-garden, too. Seems he came prepared with all kinds of seed. He eats mighty good, that feller. Corn on the cob, cabbage, peas, carrots, onions, lots of other stuff. He’s found a little gold, too.”
It was this last item that reached the attention of Lay Benton. It was just like that crazy man, he thought, to find gold where nobody else had even looked for it. His grudge against Noble had grown as stories of his improving ranch continued to spread. He took that success as a personal affront.
Late on a night after another of Giddings’ visits, Lay met with Gene Nevers and Ab Slade. “He’s got gold, horses, cattle, and some cash money Giddings paid him. Must run to seven or eight hundred dollars.”
“How do you figure to do it?” Slade asked.
“Take no chances. We lay for him and shoot him down. There’s nobody there but him and everybody will think injuns done it.”
At daylight they rode out of town, and Giddings saw them go. He stopped by the McGann house. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that gold,” he said. “Benton, Slade, and Nevers rode out of town, then circled and headed west.”
“You think they’re going after Noble?” McGann asked.
“Where else? Benton never liked him, and we all know what Benton is.”
Ruth sat quietly sewing and did not look up. Giddings glanced at her. “You don’t look worried,” he commented.
She looked up at him. “Why should I be? If a man can’t look after himself of what account is he?”
“By the way,” Giddings smiled at her. “He said for you to get to work on that trousseau.”
Her eyes flashed. “Does he think me a fool?”
Three days went by and there was no change in Ruth, or if there was it went unnoticed by old man Border, who missed nothing. Except, he added, that lately Ruth had been watering her flowers nine or ten times a day, and each time she took a long time shading her eyes down the trail toward the west. The trail was always empty, and the purple hills of evening told her nothing.
Benton might have been loudmouthed and Ab Slade a coward, but Gene Nevers was neither. He was an experienced outlaw and stock thief, and he had killed several men.
Benton wanted to slip up on Noble and shoot him down from ambush, but Nevers was practical. “He’ll have that gold hid, and we’ll never find it.”
“Maybe we should catch him and burn him a little. Make him talk.”
Nevers was impatient. “Don’t be a fool! His kind never talk.”
At the last they decided that was the way to do it They slipped down near the house and were waiting when Noble went to the spring for water. As he straightened up his eye caught the glint of light on a rifle barrel, and he was unarmed.
He made a very big target, and he was no fool. These men had come to rob him first and then kill him. Had it been only the latter he would already be dead. He thought swiftly and coolly. The only reason he was alive was because they needed him to locate the gold.
As the three stepped into the open his eyes went from one to the other. Nevers was at once the most dangerous and the most reasonable. Slade hung back, either overly cautious or a coward. That Benton disliked him he knew.