Soon he might know. Somewhere there would be a clue. If he was Ruble Noon now, he might always have been Ruble Noon-but what if he had been somebody else before that? What was he? Who was he?
In the distance he heard the train. He could hear the rails humming.
Chapter Seven
The train came in sight, whistled, and rolled down the track, the drivers pounding. It consisted of a locomotive, two freight cars, three stock cars, and a caboose.
The brakeman swung down. “Climb aboard,” he said. “We’re runnin’ behind time.”
“How about my horse?”
He gave a look at the roan, then indicated an empty stock car. “Load ‘im up, but get a move on.”
An improvised ramp, three planks nailed together, lay against the building. Noon took one end, the brakeman the other, and they placed it in position. The horse went into the stock car, and in a matter of minutes they were rolling.
Back in the caboose the brakeman went to the stove and took up the coffeepot. “How about it?” he said.
“Sure,” Noon said.
The railroader handed him a cup. The coffee was hot, black as midnight, and strong.
“Can’t figure you out,” the brakeman said. “I’ve made this run fifty times, maybe, an’ nobody ever gets on at that stop but you.”
“It’s a lonely country.”
“Yeah … it is that. But there’s a lot of lonely country, and you’re the on’y one I know with your own railroad station.”
Noon shrugged. “I’m not complaining. Saves time.”
The brakeman finished his coffee and went out to check the train. Ruble Noon put down his cup and stretched out on the settee.
Some hours later he was awakened by the brakeman. “You hungry? We’re makin’ a stop up ahead. The grub’s pretty good.”
“Thanks.”
It was night. He heard the train’s long whistle, looked ahead, and saw the finger of light from the locomotive pushing its way through the darkness. Behind it was the red glow from the firebox. The long whistle sounded again, calling into the night.
He sat for some time in the window, looking into the darkness. Then he saw the lights of a town ahead, a fair-sized town. He took out his watch-it was just past eleven o’clock.
The train ground to a halt. “We’ll be here about twenty minutes,” the brakeman said. “Don’t get too far away.”
Noon swung down, following the brakeman, and walked to the station. There was a lunchroom there, and several men were already eating at the long table. Two men who appeared to be cowhands were standing at the bar nursing their beers
As the brakeman entered they turned, glancing from the brakeman to Noon. One of the cowhands said something in a low tone to the man beside him, who gave a sharper look.
Ruble Noon sat down, helped himself to a piece of overdone steak and some mashed potatoes, and started to eat. He was, he discovered, very hungry.
The brakeman spoke out of the side of his mouth. “I don’t know you, mister, but it looks like you’ve got trouble.”
Noon was listening, but he did not look up. “All right,” he said, and then added, “Keep out of it. Let me handle it.”
“There’s two of ’em,” the brakeman protested, “and I ain’t had a good fight in months.”
“Well,” Noon said, “if they use their fists. But if it’s guns, leave it to me.”
He could hear the low talk at the bar. One man was protesting to the other, but the first was having none of it. Suddenly, he spoke aloud. “You over there! You with the blue coat! Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“You might.” Ruble Noon spoke easily. “I’ve been there.”
The man was just drunk enough not to understand. “You been where?” he demanded.
“There,” Ruble Noon said gently.
For a moment there was silence, and in the silence somebody chuckled. The man at the bar grew irritated. “I know you from somewhere,” he insisted.
“I don’t think you know me,” Ruble Noon said. He finished his coffee and got to his feet. “If you did you’d keep your mouth shut.”
He stepped outside and the brakeman followed, glancing over his shoulder. “I think they’re comin out,” he said. “They ain’t goin’ to leave it lay.”
“Let’s get aboard.”
“You scared?”
Ruble Noon turned his head sharply to look at the brakeman. “No, I’m not scared, but I have too much sense to get into a shooting match with a couple of half-drunken cowhands over nothing.”
At that moment the train whistled.
Ruble Noon walked along, caught the handrail, and swung up to the step. The two cowhands had emerged from the restaurant and were staring after him. The brakeman hesitated, then swung aboard, completing a hasty signal with his lantern.
One of the cowhands started after them. “Hey, you! You can’t get away with that! You-”
Ruble Noon went inside, followed by the brakeman, who gave him a surly look. “What did you mean back there? I mean when you said if he knew who you were he’d keep his mouth shut?”
“I was just talking.”
“I thought so,” the brakeman said. But he seemed unsure, and kept staring at Noon. “I don’t get this,” he said at last. “There’s somethin’ here I just don’t get”
“Forget it,” Ruble Noon stretched out on the settee. “Call me before we get to El Paso.”
“It’ll be daylight.” The brakeman hesitated. “You gettin’ off at the same place? This side of town?”
“Naturally,” Noon said, and closed his eyes. He heard the brakeman leave to go about bis business, and after a while he fell asleep.
The siding where they let him off was in a thick growth of brush and trees near a deserted ranch on the outskirts of town.
When he had unloaded his horse at the chute, he watched the train pull away. The brakeman was staring after him, obviously puzzled.
Ruble Noon himself was puzzled. Apparently he had made this trip before and was known to the trainmen, but they did not know his business nor why he should be accorded such privilege. Undoubtedly there was some official connection. Perhaps some of his “work” had been for the railroad. It would take somebody with considerable authority to arrange such a situation.
There was nobody around the small adobe. He saw a well, lowered a bucket, and got water for himself and his horse.
The door of the adobe was closed, but it opened under his hand. The place was dusty, but otherwise it was clean and in good shape. There was a bed, and a cupboard devoid of supplies. It was cool and quiet, and was hidden by mesquite thickets and a few cotton-woods.
He went outside again, and noticed a couple of stacks of hay near the corral. He put some down for the roan, and squatted on his heels in the shade, considering the situation. It would be better, he decided, to wait until dark before entering the town.
As he sat there he found himself thinking back to the two cowhands at the restaurant near the station where they had stopped. For the first time he thought about the one who had tried to avoid trouble. That one, he decided, had not been drinking. Moreover, there had been something peculiar in his attitude, some particular caution. Was he imagining it, or had that cowhand been overeager to avoid trouble?
Was it mere chance that they were there? Suppose one of them was there for a purpose, and the other had just joined him by accident? Suppose one was a spy, an outpost, as it were, to notify somebody of Noon’s approach to El Paso?
He was imagining things. Knowing nothing for sure, he was finding suspicious items everywhere.
But the one man’s attitude, the way he had looked at Ruble Noon, would not leave him. That man had known who he was looking at, but he had not wanted to attract attention.
All right … take it from there. Suppose that somebody in El Paso had discovered that Ruble Noon used that approach. Suppose that somebody had a man posted to watch for him at the logical place – the restaurant and bar where all train crews stopped.
The one who wanted such information might be one of two types. He might be somebody who wanted to hire him for a job, or somebody who wanted him killed … who, for one reason or another, feared him.
If they knew about this route into the town, they might also know about this place. He might, even now, be right in the middle of a trap.
He sat very still, his hatbrim pulled low. Under it his eyes were busy, searching out places of possible concealment.
The pile of wood yonder … possible, but unlikely – too hard to get at or get away from. Under the mesquite? His eyes searched that part, and suddenly all his senses were alert. Was some sixth sense, or perhaps all his other senses together, trying to warn him of something? Or was it only his imagination that made him suspect he might be under observation?