He had been in Mesilla for only three months now, but he was about ready to drift. He was going to try Santa Fe next, or perhaps go to Arizona. He lighted his pipe and tipped back his chair. This stranger, now … what he had said was true: the best way to make a quick judgment of a town was through its newspaper, to read the advertisements, the news items on local issues … but Mallory did not for a minute believe this man was interested in settling in Mesilla.
The fact was that Las Cruces was the coming town. Since the railroad had come to Las Cruces the population here had fallen off a little, and the center of activity seemed to be shifting. For himself, he liked Mesilla.
He stoked his pipe again, and glanced around, hitching his chair a little to watch the stranger, who had finished one sheaf of papers and gone on to another. He was scanning the paper with a rapidity that Mallory envied. He was obviously looking for something particular, and he seemed to be checking most of the items.
The difficulty was that Ruble Noon did not himself know what he was looking for. Some mention of Jonas Mandrin, perhaps, or some news story that might jog his memory, some clue from the tune before he was shot. He was trying to eliminate all items that offered no interest, reading more carefully those items that might provide him with the information he wanted.
He was on the fourth sheaf of newspapers and it was almost midnight when he found an item tucked away in a corner of the newspaper.
DISAPPEARANCE The $500 reward offered for information as to the whereabouts of Jonas Mandrin has been withdrawn, as Mandrin, who disappeared two years ago, is presumed dead. Mandrin, despondent after the murder of his wife and child during his absence in New York, was reported seen in St. Louis and in Memphis, but then dropped from sight.
A noted hunter of big game and a crack shot, he was president of the newly founded Mandrin Arms Co. of Louisville. He had formerly been a correspondent for various newspapers and magazines in both the United States and Europe. The discovery of several items of clothing and letters has led to the belief that Jonas Mandrin is dead.
Ruble Noon sat very still, staring at the item. The newspaper he held in his hands was five years old, and Jonas Mandrin had disappeared two years prior to that time. The man known as Ruble Noon had appeared in a Missouri tie-camp about a year after the disappearance. It all seemed to fit nicely.
Was he Jonas Mandrin? If so, what led Jonas Mandrin, a sportsman and businessman, to become Ruble Noon, the mankiller?
He returned the papers to the filing cabinet, and went to the door.
“Find what you wanted?” Mallory asked.
Ruble Noon took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, it seems like a good place,” he said, “although the railroad will make a difference.”
He stepped into the saddle and started down the street, looking for a livery stable.
Mallory got up and went inside. He took down the first sheaf of papers and leafed through them, checking item after item. But it was not until the next day when he returned to the task that he at last found the item about Jonas Mandrin.
He sat back, considering. The reward had been withdrawn, but there might still be somebody who would pay for information. It was worth a chance.
If not worth five hundred dollars, it might be worth a hundred or more even now. He pulled a sheet of paper across the desk and picked up his pen.
Chapter Eleven
Ruble Noon awoke in his hotel room in the cool hours of morning, and lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. He had the decision clear in his mind that he would return to the Rafter D. Once there, he would face the issues as they developed.
If he had been the man called Jonas Mandrin, he did not know it or feel it. If he had had a wife and child, he had no memory of them. Was his amnesia a curtain to protect him from the destruction that might be wrought by shock and grief?
If he was Jonas Mandrin, had he come west to escape from his memories? Or had he hoped to find the men who had killed his family? If it was the latter case they were safe from him, for he had no details, nothing.
But how had Judge Niland guessed he was Mandrin merely by the use of the name? Or had he known Mandrin at some earlier time, or known of him?
He swung his feet to the floor and dressed quickly, trimmed his beard, and combed his hair. In the dining room he ate a quick breakfast, picked up a lunch he had packed for him, and headed out of town at a fast gallop.
He could have caught the tram at Las Graces, but decided against it. If they were watching the railroad, that would be the logical place. He rode hard, swapped horses at a small ranch, and continued on. The gray he picked up in exchange for the roan was a short-coupled horse with a rough gait, but he was built for stamina.
It was just past sundown when he heard the sound of a cowbell, and topping out on a bluff near the river, he saw a ranch nestled among some cottonwoods on a small creek that ran toward the Rio Grande.
He circled around to the trail down the bluff and rode to the ranch. By the time he reached the place it was dark, but there was a light in the window, which was extinguished when a dog began barking furiously. He drew up and hailed the house, first in English, then in Spanish.
When there was no reply he walked his horse forward into the ranchyard. He stopped there, and called out again.
Someone under the cottonwoods near the house spoke. “What do you wish, senor?”
“A meal, and a horse you’ll swap me for this one.”
“Where do you go?”
“Socorro, amigo.”
The Mexican walked out from under the trees. “You may ride up, senor, but my son … he is under the trees with a Winchester.”
“You are wise, amigo. Many bad hombres ride these days.”
He swung down and turned the horse so that they could see him more clearly. “It is a good horse,” he said, “but I ride far and I have enemies.”
The Mexican shrugged. “A man can be judged by those who hate him. Si, it is a good horse, a very good horse, and you have come far.”
The Mexican turned his head toward the house and called, “A plate and a cup, mamacita.” Turning back to Ruble Noon, he said, “Come, senor.”
Noon hesitated. “I would bring my rifle, amigo. It is agreed?”
“Of course.” Then he added, “My son will see to the horse.”
They walked to the house together, and Ruble removed his hat as he entered, bowing to the Mexican woman who stood at the stove. “I am too much trouble, senora,” he said.
“It is no trouble. Sit down, if you will.”
The frijoles were hot and filling; he ate two helpings of them, several tortillas, and some roast beef.
“You were hungry, senor,” the woman said.
He smiled. “To eat a meal you have cooked, senora, is the greatest pleasure. And if I had not been hungry the taste would have made me so.”
She beamed at him, and refilled his coffee cup. He sat back in his chair. “Your road is not traveled,” he said, “or else the wind has blown away the tracks.”
The Mexican shrugged. “The sand and the wind … you know how it is.”
“The gray horse,” Ruble Noon suggested … “I will give you a paper … a bill of sale. But if anyone should follow me, I do not want the horse seen. Do you understand?”
“There is a pasture among the willows down by the river, senor, not a place to be found. I will keep the horse there.”
Ruble Noon got to his feet, reluctant to leave the friendliness of these simple people. He stood for a moment, and glanced around. “You are fortunate,” he said. “You have much here.”
“We are poor people, senor.”
“Poor? I would say you are richer than you know. You have a house, some cattle, you have food, and you have each other. It is a great deal more than I will have out there.” He indicated the night outside. Then he went out, moving at once to the side of the door.
The younger Mexican spoke. “I have saddled a horse. He is a good one and will go far.”