“Fifty dollars now, that’s near two months’ wages for a cowhand, so we taken him up on it. Who paid the money to him, I don’t know.”
Ruble Noon considered. The man seemed to be telling the truth, and the story sounded right.
“All right,” he said. “I’ve got your horse outside. I’m going to load you up and take you out a-ways. When I get you within easy distance of El Paso I’ll turn you loose.”
He stood for a moment thinking about Peterson. It was unlikely that he could make Peterson talk, for the man sounded like a tough one. He had served in the Rangers, and had probably gone bad after leaving them … or been kicked out, as was often the case if they found they had a bad egg in the basket.
When those dead men came into town tied on their horses, Peterson would be among the first to hear of it, and he would surely carry the news to the man who had hired him. By watching Peterson, Ruble Noon might locate his man.
Now he loaded the wounded man on his horse and led the animal away from the deserted ranch. When they were well on the road to El Paso, he let the horse and rider go.
He swung off the trail into the mesquite and circled for low ground, riding toward El Paso by the best hidden route he could find.
Had he been here before? It seemed likely that he had. Should he let himself go, hoping that hidden memory would take him to the right places?
But those places might now be the worst ones for him, and any man he saw might be an enemy. Or he might be wanted by the law.
He rode on cautiously, but with foreboding. His head was aching again, and he was very tired. The sun was hot, and he wanted to lie down in the shade to rest, but there was no time.
He was riding toward something, he did not know what. The only thing he was sure of now was that he was Ruble Noon, a man feared, a man who hired his gun to kill, a man he did not want to be.
Whatever had made him what he was he did not know; he knew only that he wanted to be that no longer. The trouble was, he had to be. To cease to be what he was now would be to die … and to leave that girl back there alone, and without defenses.
He rode on in the hot afternoon, and the streets of the town opened before him.
Chapter Eight
As he entered the town a street on his right branched away from the main street, and he turned into it. When he had ridden only a few hundred yards he saw a large wooden stable with doors opened wide. An old Mexican sat in front of it There were a water trough and a pump close by.
He drew up. “You got room for another horse?” he asked.
The Mexican looked at him. “This is not a livery stable, senor,” he said, “but if you wish – ”
Ruble Noon swung to the ground. “It’s the first one I saw,” he said, “and I’m dead beat. How much for the horse and a place to clean up?”
“Fifty cents?”
“That’ll do.” He followed the Mexican into the stable and was shown a stall. He led the roan in, then went up to the loft and forked hay down the chute into the manger.
When he came down he gave the Mexican fifty cents, and followed him to the water trough. The Mexican handed him a tin basin, and he pumped water into it and washed his face and hands, and then combed his hair. Using his hat, he whipped the dust from his pants and his boots. When he turned to go the old man said, “You wish to sleep here, senor? There is a cot in there.” He gestured toward a room in the corner of the barn. “And no bugs.”
“How much?”
The Mexican smiled. “Fifty cents.”
“All right.”
He turned to walk away and the man spoke again. “Be careful, senor.”
He stopped, his eyes searching the old man’s face. “Why do you say that?”
The man shrugged. “It is a wild town. The railroads have brought many strangers. There have been shootings.”
“Thanks,” Noon said.
The sun had slipped from sight, and with its passing a desert coolness came. He walked to the next street, and saw the sign of the Coliseum, a saloon and variety theater. He avoided it … from somewhere he seemed to hare the impression that the Coliseum and Jack Doyle’s were the most popular places in town.
In a small restaurant further along the street he ordered frijoles, tortillas, and roast beef, and drank a glass of beer. Over his coffee he sat watching the lights come on. Men came and went as he waited there. Having eaten, he felt better, and the ache dulled, but he was strangely on edge, not at all as he wanted to feel.
He got up to pay, and a small man eating at a table near him turned suddenly to look at him … and stared.
Ruble Noon paid his bill and went outside, but he felt uneasy. When he had walked a few yards he glanced back, and saw that the man was standing in the restaurant door, staring after him.
He turned the corner, walked a block, and crossed the street. Glancing back he saw no one, but he felt worried. That man was interested in him, and recognized him perhaps. The sooner he did what he had come to do and left town, the better.
He saw the Acme Saloon ahead of him … and then he saw the sign of Dean Cullane’s office. It was on the second floor, reached by an outside stairway. The windows were dark and the place was empty-looking.
He paused and made a show of wiping his face while he glanced up and down the street No one was in sight, and he went up the steps swiftly. At the landing he knocked, and when there was no response he tried the door. It was locked.
He looked down, but there was no one on the street He drew his knife, slipped the point into the lock, and worked the bolt back, then he pushed with his shoulder. The door was ill-fitting, and it opened easily. He stepped inside and pushed it to behind him. He stood still… listening.
Outside there was only the distant tin-panny sound of a piano. He waited, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light that came in through the windows.
He saw that the room contained a rolltop desk, a swivel chair, another chair, and a leather settee. Under a shelf filled with books there was also a table covered with papers. A brass spittoon was on the floor.
A door stood open just a crack, and in that crack he saw a gun muzzle. Even as he saw it, he realized that the something that had disturbed him since entering the room was the faint smell of perfume mingled with the smell of stale tobacco.
“There’s no use of your shooting me,” he said. “There would be nothing gained. And besides” – he played a hunch – ”you’d have to explain what you were doing here.”
The door opened wider, and he could see a girl standing there, the gun still held level. “Who are you?” she asked.
He smiled into the darkness, and some of the smile was in his tone when he said, “I didn’t ask you that”
“All right then-what do you want?”
“To put some pieces together.”
“What was Dean Cullane to you?” she asked.
“A name – no more than that. Only somebody shot at me, and a thing like that makes a man curious.”
“Dean Cullane would not shoot anyone – at least, I don’t think he would.”
“We never know, do we? Sometimes the most unexpected people will shoot. You even have a gun yourself.”
“But I would shoot, mister. I have shot before this.”
“And killed?”
“I didn’t have time to look. Anyway, Dean Cullane did not shoot you, so who did? And why are you here?”
“The man who shot at me was paid to do it. He is a man who does such things for money.”
“Ruble Noon!” she exclaimed.
“Is he the only one? I have heard there are a dozen here in El Paso, or over in Juarez, who would kill for hire.”
By now he realized that she was young and appeared to be attractive, and she was well gotten up, but not for the street … at least not for El Paso streets at this hour. And not for the vicinity of the Acme Saloon at any hour.