The man’s head turned … Ruble Noon remembered the face, but from where he did not know. It was a narrow, cruel face with a thin-lipped mouth and a sharp jawline. The gun was tied low. The man turned his horse and rode away and the Mexican woman looked after him, then crossed herself.
Ruble Noon stood up. His muscles ached and his feet were tired. He desperately needed a horse, and he needed a drink.
The Mexican woman was still standing there. Only now she was not looking after the man who had ridden away; she was looking at, of all things, a parrot. It sat on a perch near her, its neck craning. The woman did not turn, but she spoke quietly. “Come, senor. It is safe now.”
He walked toward her, poised for trouble, but he believed her. He knew from his lost past that Mexicans befriended those in trouble.
She turned now and looked at him. “Pancho saw you. He saw you when that gringo was here.”
She said gringo with a particular inflection, and he grinned. “You could have told him.”
“I would tell him nothing! He is no good. I know that one – that was Lynch Manly.”
Ruble Noon looked after the gunman. Somehow he knew that if they had gone so far as to import Lynch Manly they were trying hard. He did not remember the details, but Manly was a noted man-hunter and a man-killer who had once been a Royal Northwest Mounted policeman, but he had been fired from the force for an unnecessary killing. Since then he had been a hired gunman for several cattle or mining outfits, and had a reputation as a badman.
Ruble Noon took a drink at the well, then followed the Mexican woman into the house. He washed his hands and face before sitting down at the table. She put food on the table, and poured out coffee. Sunlight fell through the windows, and he could hear the hens clucking in the yard. It was a pleasant, quiet place.
“I envy you,” he said.
She glanced at him. “When the Apache comes will you envy me? It is quiet then also – the quiet of death.”
“They come this far?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “They can … they have. Who knows what they will do?” She studied him. “You do not look like one to be so feared.”
“Feared?”
“When they send so many after one, he must be someone feared. They search the towns, the ranches, even the huts along the Rio Grande.”
“There are many?”
“Twenty … or maybe more.”
“Yet you help me?”
She smiled. “I like a man who is feared. My husband is such a man.”
“He is here?”
“They have him in prison. They will hang him. He is Miguel Lebo.” She said it proudly, and with defiance.
“I do not know him, senora,” he said, “but if he is your husband I think he is a good man. He wouldn’t dare be anything else.”
She laughed.
An idea came to him. “You have an old sombrero? And scrape?”
“Si”. She caught on at once. “You wish to use them?”
At his nod she left the room and returned with a battered sombrero, a scrape that had seen better days, and some fringed leggings. “Your Spanish is good, senor. Tell them you are from Sonora.”
The pinto she brought was gaunt, the saddle was old, but they would suffice. He had trimmed his beard to a mustache and sideburns, and when he left he wore the sombrero pulled low.
He trotted the horse toward the town, following the trail. When he reached there he tied the horse at the hitching rail and went into a Mexican saloon for a beer.
The Mexican who came to the table hit a careless swipe with the bar rag. He was fat, and one eye was covered with a black patch. The only others in the saloon were a peon who slept in a corner, and a man with his head on a table.
He said quietly, “Have you seen the horse I ride, senor?”
“I have seen it.”
The voice of the saloonkeeper was low, guarded. “What is it you wish, senor? Only the beer?”
“The beer and a trade. I wish to trade the pinto you see for two horses-fast horses. I have no friends here, amigo, and many men search for me, but Senora Lebo was a friend to me and I would be a friend to her.”
“If you mean what I think, you are loco.”
“The beer, and two horses … pronto.”
The saloonkeeper went away and came back with the beer. Then he left his apron on the bar and walked out. He was gone for some time.
Ruble Noon finished his beer, and when the saloonkeeper returned he ordered another. Out in front a Mexican boy was stripping the gear from his pinto and placing it on a grulla, a mouse-colored horse with a white nose and three white stockings. A saddled horse stood beside it. There was a rifle in the scabbard and a gunbelt on the pommel. Behind each saddle was a blanket roll.
Ruble Noon finished his second beer and went over to the bar. He placed money on the bar, but the saloonkeeper waved it away. “Miguel Lebo is my friend,” he said. “But think what you do,” he added.
“They hunt me already,” Noon replied, “and I think I can use a good man where I go. Answer me these questions. How many are now in the office at the jail? How far away does the nearest officer live? Who would give the alarm quickest?”
“Only one man is at the jail, and he has nothing against Miguel. The nearest officer is a deputy marshal who is four blocks down the street, asleep. As to the alarm, I think no one will give it but the keeper of the store over there. He doesn’t like Mexicans – only our business.”
“Give him business then. Get five Mexicans to go in and buy.” He placed two twenty-dollar gold pieces on the bar. “Give them these. Let them buy what they need, and keep what they buy, only keep him busy.”
The saloonkeeper looked at him steadily. “You take a great risk… why?”
“The senora welcomed me, fed me, offered me a horse. She said her husband was a good man, and I do not believe that good men should hang.”
“It was a big rancher’s jury. Miguel owns a water hole … he has owned it for many years. His people came with the first settlers to Socorro.”
“He shall go free.”
Ruble Noon went to the door and studied the street. It was early evening. Most men were at their suppers, and those who would soon fill the saloons and gambling houses had not yet arrived. A few men were talking, some read their newspapers.
He looked at the horses and saw they were good. He turned. “Adios, amigo.”
He walked up the street to the jail, opened the door, and stepped in. There was a roll-top desk in the room, a table, and a chair near the stove. The weather was warm, but the man there sat near it for convenience. He was chewing tobacco, and the open door of the stove was his target
“Howdy, Mex, what can I do for you?” he said.
“I have heard you are a good man,” Ruble Noon answered, “and not unfriendly to your prisoner.”
“Fact is Lebo’s a good man, but I’m his jailer and there’ll be no monkey business.”
“Indeed, no,” Ruble Noon said, and he produced a gun. “A kindly man I would not wish to shoot.”
The jailer looked at the gun, and he looked at the eyes that looked into his. He said, “You’re no Mex. Who are you?”
“Ruble Noon,” Noon said quietly. “Just tell them it was Ruble Noon who came. And add that Senora Lebo is not to be disturbed … nor her water hole. Tell them it was Ruble Noon who said it.”
Chapter Twelve
Miguel Lebo squatted on his heels across the fire from Ruble Noon and sipped his coffee. Their camp was in a hollow screened by pines, well up the slope of the mountain, but by taking three steps they were in position to overlook the valley below, now bathed in moonlight.
“I thank you again, amigo, but I wonder why you have done this thing.”
Noon shrugged. “Impulse, I guess. Your wife is a good woman, and she helped me when I needed help … and I do not like your enemies.”
“Only that?”
“You needed a chance for life. I needed help.”
“Ah?”
“You are a good man with a gun.”
“I have had troubles, and men came against me.”
“I want you to go to Colorado,” Noon said. “There is a ranch where men hide from the law and they will not be surprised if you come.”