“Whatever you are here for,” the girl said, “you have no business to be in this office. You forced the door.”
“And you had a key? Perhaps Dean Cullane had a reason to give you a key.”
“He did not give it to me, and it does not mean what you think. Dean Cullane was my brother.”
“Was?”
“He is dead… he was killed… murdered.”
“I am sorry. I didn’t know that. If you are his sister you have a right to be here.” He reached toward the kerosene lamp. “Shall we have some light?”
“No! Please don’t! He would kill me, too.”
“Who?”
“Ruble Noon… the man who killed Dean.”
He held himself very still, listening for something within him, but nothing spoke to him. . . . Had he actually killed Dean Cullane?
“I doubt if he would kill a woman,” he said. “It isn’t done, you know.”
He removed the lamp chimney, struck a match, and held it to the wick. As he did so, she lowered the gun, and when he replaced the chimney, they looked across the room at each other.
He saw a slender girl, with auburn hair and dark eyes; at least, in this light they seemed to be dark. She was dressed for a party, but had a dark cloak over her arm. She was lovely… a real beauty.
Her eyes fell to his sleeve. “Where did you get that coat?” Her voice was suddenly cold. “That is my brother’s coat, Dean’s coat I was with him when he chose the material.”
“It is? All I knew was that it was not mine. I must have taken it by mistake.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.” He touched his head. “I was struck on the head. I believe I tried to escape from somewhere after I was struck, and I must have caught up a coat from where mine was hanging.”
“Where was this?”
“Northwest of here . . . quite a way off. . . . You spoke of Ruble Noon. Did your brother know him?’
“No, but he was trying to discover who he was, what he was. I do not know why, but I believe Dean had some information that related to Ruble Noon in some way. He told me he had to see him, to talk to him, and he seemed to think he knew where to find him.”
“You are dressed for a party?” he said inquiringly.
“Yes. I came from one at the home of friends, and I must get back.” But she made no move to go. She was giving him all her attention. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Stay here and look.”
“For what?”
“Ma’am, somebody shot at me. Before they try it again I want to know why they’re shooting. I picked up Dean Cullane’s coat in the room where I got shot at, or somewhere close by. Dean Cullane is my only clue … except one other.”
“What is that?”
“I know who shot at me.” He paused. “Miss Cullane, what do you know about the Rafter D – Tom Davidge’s outfit?”
She hesitated before replying. That she knew something was obvious, and apparently she was wondering whether to tell him of it or not. “I know nothing about the ranch,” she said finally. “I did know Fan, Tom Davidge’s daughter. We went to school together.”
He was getting nowhere. And he did not have much time, for without doubt the people who had sent men gunning for him knew he was in El Paso. They would also have an idea of where to look for him.
As he talked his eyes had been taking in the room, locating possible hiding places for whatever it was that he wanted.
“We must go,” she said suddenly. “They will be wondering where I am.”
“I’ll stay,” he said.
She smiled at him. “Of course, I cannot demand that you accompany me, but would a gentleman allow a lady to walk the streets of El Paso alone at this hour?”
He shrugged. “I hope I am a gentleman, ma’am, but I have a distinct impression that you got here by yourself … and you are armed.”
Her eyes narrowed a little as the skin tightened around them. This young lady had a temper – and she was used to having her own way.
“If you stay here,” she said, “I shall have you arrested. You broke in here, like a thief. I suspect you are a thief.”
He had an idea she meant what she said, and he responded, “All right. I will walk you back to the party.”
He took her key to lock the door, but she held out her hand for it and he had to return it. They went down the steps and along the street, then around a corner and down another street. He could hear the music and laughter before they saw the house.
It was a white frame house with a lot of gingerbread decorations around the eaves. He went to the steps with her and stopped, about to turn away.
“Peg? Peg Cullane! Who’s that with you?” A girl came down the steps. She was shorter than Peg Cullane, and was blonde and pretty and plump. She looked up at him and laughed.
“Leave it to Peg! She’s the only girl in town who could step out for a breath of fresh air and come back with the handsomest man in town! … Well? Are you coming in?”
“Sorry,” Ruble Noon said. “I have to be going. I was just walking Miss Cullane back to the dance.”
“Oh, no, you don’t! Not without at least one dance with me. Peg, aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“My name is Mandrin,” he said, “Jonas Mandrin.”
“And I am Stella Mackay … just Stella to you! Let’s all go in.”
A gray-haired man was standing outside on the lawn smoking a cigar. Ruble Noon saw him look up quickly when he said he was Jonas Mandrin … and then look again sharply.
Mandrin? It was another of those names that had come from nowhere, involuntarily. Jonas Mandrin … it was not a usual name-like Tom Jones or John Smith, not the sort of name a man might be expected to come up with suddenly. He might, without meaning to at all, be giving a clue to his identity.
The music was playing, and he found himself inside dancing with Stella, but he watched Peg Cullane. She was not dancing. He saw her go across the room to a tall young man and speak to him. At once the man’s eyes sought him out, and then the man went to two others hi the room, and all stood together, watching him.
Trouble … he would be a fool not to see it coming. Stella was talking gaily, and he was replying … What was he doing here, she was asking. He heard himself saying he was looking for ranch property, wanting to raise horses.
He finished the dance with Stella, danced with another girl, and had stopped briefly at one side of the room. The man he had seen smoking on the lawn came up and spoke to him quietly. He was a fine-looking elderly man, with clean-cut features and a scholarly face.
“Young man,” he said, “if you want to live out the evening you had better slip away.” He paused for a moment. “The gate at the end of the garden is open. Go through it to the house next door. The side door. On the other side of the house the side door is open. Go in and sit down in that room, but do not make a light.”
“Is that a trap?”
The old man smiled. “No, Jonas Mandrin, it is not. It is my home, and I am Judge Niland. You will be safe in my house.” All this had been in a low tone.
The music started again, and he danced around the room through the crowd. When near the door to the kitchen, and opposite the three young men, he whispered a quick good-bye to the girl with whom he was dancing and slipped out through the kitchen. Then he was running.
It was dark outside. He did not open the gate, but touched a hand lightly on the top and vaulted. He landed and, skirting a huge cottonwood, found himself in the Judge’s yard. He went to the door on the other side and it opened under his hand and he stepped into the darkness of the room.
The air was close; the room was still except for the ticking of the clock. Only faintly could he hear music from the house he had left. He touched a chair, and sat down.
A moment later he heard running feet, and the sound of somebody swearing. Standing up, he leaned over and flipped the lock on the door.
He heard the steps come close, and a hand trying the door. Then someone said, low-voiced, “Not there, you fool! That’s the Judge’s house!” And then they were gone.