Ruble Noon kept his eyes down, not to show the anger, in him. What manner of man was Ruble Noon if Niland could suggest that he murder a woman? Or was it the Judge’s idea that a man who was willing to kill might as easily kill a woman as a man? When he looked up, his face was calm.
“One thing at a time,” he said, committing himself to nothing.
He was puzzled at himself, and at the fix he was in. He was wondering if he meant to do what the Judge implied, or seemed to imply.
A half-million – that was more money than he could imagine. It was true that Fan had the ranch, or would have it after he killed Ben Janish … if he killed him. But that was just it. He could not take the money unless he left her with something, with the ranch. If he killed Ben Janish she would be free – she’d have it then.
. But suppose Janish killed him? What had happened back there in that nameless town? How had Janish shot at him without his knowing? How had Janish almost killed him?
Of course, he’d been warned. Dean Cullane had warned him.
Well, there was no use his thinking about it; he would not kill Ben Janish. The man who was willing to kill was in another life; now he did not want to kill. Anyway, he did not know where the money was. If he had ever known, he did not know now. He stood up. “I’ve got miles to go,” he said.
“You’d best be careful. Don’t you low-rate that girl. Peg is sly as a fox-I’ve seen it before this. And she’s cold. She’ll have her boys out looking for you.”
“Who were those men?” Ruble Noon asked. “Some of the town boys, and some from ranches around,” Niland answered. “They set store by her; she’s the belle of the country around. Those boys will do anything for her, though some of them are decent enough lads. You be careful now.”
Ruble Noon paused at the door. “You going back by trail?” the Judge asked.
Noon shrugged, and did not really answer the question. “There’s always the railroad. Tom Davidge owned stock in it, you know. He financed the building of a good part of it, and brought others in to do the rest. And they stood by him, that lot. They’d do anything for old Tom.”
He added, “It will take time, Judge. Ben Janish is no fool.”
“You bring it here,” Niland said. “Right here to me, but come by night. If nobody knows we’re acquainted – it will help.”
When Ruble Noon stepped outside the dark doorway he stood still for a moment, listening. Sometimes it seemed that he had been living in a dream from which he might wake up at any moment. He kept expecting to wake up.
He moved away from the door, but did not go to the gate. Instead, he walked along the hedge to the place where he remembered there was a small gap. Easing through it, he crossed the yard in the darkness, and reached a street. He went on until he came to the stable where he had left his horse.
Not until he was settling down to sleep in the hay did he remember: He had forgotten to get the talk around to Jonas Mandrin.
Who was Jonas Mandrin? How did he fit into the life of Ruble Noon?
Chapter Ten
He awoke to the sound of rain, and for a moment he lay still, listening. Suddenly he heard a low voice calling, calling very softly. ” Senor? Senor?”
“Si?”
“I think they look for you, Senor. It is better you go now.”
Ruble Noon stood up and brushed the hay from his clothes, eased his gun into position, and came down the ladder from the loft.
“They have not come here yet,” the Mexican said, “but they look on another street. I see them.” He had already saddled the roan.
“Is there a way out of here, keeping off the streets?”
The Mexican squatted on his heels and traced in the dust with his finger. “Between the adobes … see? Then around the house of Alvarado … past the barn and into the brush. I wish you luck, Senor.”
Ruble Noon led the horse to the back door and stepped into the saddle. The rain was falling harder now.
The Mexican went to the small room and took a poncho from a nail. “Here, take this … I will pay. And go with God.”
Ruble Noon took a gold eagle from bis pocket and handed it to him. “Don’t spend it for a few days, amigo. They might guess where it came from.”
He walked the horse through the door, then cantered along the route the Mexican had indicated. The poncho was merely a thickly woven blanket, with a hole in the center for his head. Wearing the wide-brimmed hat, he might easily pass for a Mexican.
Outside of town he took to the brush. Weaving his way through mesquite thickets, he made for the railroad. The rain fell steadily, and it was likely that whatever trail he left would soon be wiped out. Several times he drew up in the partial shelter of trees to study his back trail, but he saw no one, and of course there was no dust. But visibility was not good, and it made him uneasy.
It was out of the question to return to the ranch after the recent ambush there, so he took a trail northward toward Mesilla. His every instinct was to run and hide, to hole up somewhere and wait until he could sort out his knowledge and his feelings, to come nearer to discovering more about himself.
He must have been a killer, but before that he had been somebody else, somewhere else. Suddenly he thought of newspaper files. If he could go through the files he might find in one of the back issues some report of himself, or some information about Jonas Mandrin. But he must proceed very carefully. He might be known in Mesilla.
It was past nine o’clock when he rode into the quiet town near the Rio Grande. A few lights showed from the doors of saloons, and here and there men were seated on benches or chairs along the boardwalk. One chair was in front of the newspaper office.
He drew up and stepped down from the saddle, and a man seated there looked up curiously.
Ruble Noon knew that this was a time in which to be wary. The Lincoln County war was playing itself out, the warriors were beginning to drift to more healthful climes, but haphazard violence continued. Solitary riders were apt to be regarded with some suspicion until there destinations and intentions became clear.
He looked up the quiet street. He would have liked to sit in one of those chairs himself, listening to the sound of voices, waiting to go to bed until the night had cooled somewhat.
“A pleasant evening,” he said. “You’re not working?” he asked. He was taking it for granted that the man belonged on the newspaper.
“No. This is a case when no news is good news,” the man said. His voice sounded young. “Riding through?”
“As a matter of fact, I was going to ask if I might go over the files of your papers. Last year, maybe, or the year before.”
“Now, that’s the first time I’ve been asked that.” The newspaper man sat up. “Not many people care what happened that long ago. Anything I can help you with? I’ve a good memory.” He stood at the door of the office.
“Hell, no. To tell you the truth, I was just wanting to get the feel of the country. You know, a man can read a lot between the lines of a newspaper, and I want to see what goes on around.”
“Help yourself. Try that set of drawers over there.”
“Do you copy much news from out of town? Or much eastern news?”
The man’s attention suddenly became sharper. “Ocassionally,” he said. “If it has any local connection we do, or if it is of major interest. Once in a while we use eastern or California stuff just to fill in space. Local news usually gets around by grapevine before we can print it.”
Ruble Noon went inside and took out the first sheaf of newspapers from the drawer. Settling down near the light, he began to scan the pages.
Outside, the printer turned a little in his chair. His attention had been arrested by the use of the word “copy.” It was a newspaperman’s use of the word. He had heard it used in this way many times in the East, but rarely west of the Mississippi.
That did not imply that this stranger had been a newspaperman, but he had seen a good many of them drifting along the trails – more since the railroad had come in a few months back. Mallory himself was a tramp printer who had worked on more than a dozen newspapers, and not so much as a year on any of them after his first, when he was fourteen. He had worked in big towns and small ones, but he preferred the little towns, and the western ones.