But if Ben Janish had been sent to kill him, he had been sent by whom?
They had said he was a tenderfoot, which implied he was new to the West. If this was the case, why had he come west? And where had he come from? Did he have a family? Was he married or single?
Well, he had the one clue. He must find out who Ben Janish was, and where he was.
He had no mirror, and therefore no knowledge of what he looked like. That he was tall was obvious, and by feeling his biceps he assured himself that he was an uncommonly strong man. Tenderfoot he might be, but he was no weakling.
He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. One hand emerged with a small sack that proved to contain ten gold eagles and some odd coins. There was also a small but solid packet of greenbacks, but he did not take the time to count them. The other pocket contained a strong clasp knife, a white handkerchief, a waterproof matchbox, a tight ball of rawhide string, and three keys on a key chain.
The side pockets of the coat contained nothing at all, but the inside pocket paid off with some kind of legal document and two letters.
The letters were addressed to Dean Cullane, El Paso, Texas. Was that who he was?
He spoke the name aloud, but it evoked no response in his memory.
It was too dark to do more than make out the addresses on the letters, and he returned them to his pocket to wait for a better light.
“Well, Dean Cullane, if that is who you are, for a man with so much money you certainly have a lousy tailor.”
El Paso … he said the name but it meant nothing to him. However, it was his second lead. He would go to El Paso, go to the home of Dean Cullane and see if he was recognized there. Yet… did he dare?
Somewhere along the tortured line of his thinking, he dozed off, but was awakened when a rough hand grasped his shoulder.
“Mister” – the voice was low but anxious – “Don’t you swing on me. I’m a friend, and by the looks of that crowd waiting up the street, you need a friend.”
He was on his feet, shocked into clear-headedness. The train was still moving, lights flashed past the doors, and they were entering a town. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s happening?”
“There’s a big crowd up the street, mister, and they’ve got a rope. They’re fixing to hang you.”
“Hang me? Why?”
“Don’t stand there asking questions! When we pass that water tank, you jump and run.” The man pointed toward a dark, looming building. “There’s a gap between that building and the corral. You can take it running. At the end of the corral there’s bushes, and right past the corner of the corral there’s a path goes through into the wash.
“You take off up that wash for the hills, and if you can run, you’d better. Don’t leave the wash until you see a big boulder, kind of greenish color, if it’s light enough to see. When you get to that boulder you do a hard right and go up the bank. There’s a path … follow it.”
The train was slowing now, and suddenly the man beside him dropped into the night, and was running. In an instant he had done the same. Even as he did so he wondered at the practiced ease with which he accomplished it. His memory might be gone, but the habit patterns in his muscles had not forgotten.
The water tank dripped into the dirt below, and there was a pleasant smell of dampness as he went past. He was aware briefly of the feel of cinders under his feet, the smell of coal smoke from the engine, and steam drifting back from the exhaust.
He saw the huge old barn, the corrals nearby, and he ran into the opening between, stretching his long legs and moving fast. The night was cool. He caught the fresh smell of hay and the smell of manure from the barns, and then he was past the corral.
Behind him men were shouting: “Search the train! Don’t let him get away!”
He ducked into the black opening in the brush, was through it and into the sand of the wash. His running slowed because of the heavy going, but he plunged on until his heart was pounding so that it frightened him. He really slowed down then, walking and trotting. For a man who had been slugged on the head and who had been dead-tired a short time before, he seemed to have remarkable endurance.
* * *
He plodded on. The boulder loomed before him, and he turned and went up the bank. Almost at once he was on a path that ran parallel to the wash but a dozen feet above it, angling up the slope but under cover from the brush.
The trail dipped down to a small creek. He knelt and drank a little, and then as there seemed no other route he walked upstream in the water. He had gone no more than a quarter of a mile when a low call arrested him. “Up here!”
He turned and went up into the rocks, where his unknown friend stood waiting.
Without a word the man turned and forced his way through a narrow crack in the rocks, followed a path for perhaps forty yards, and then ducked under some leaning boulders and into a small hollow among brush and huge rocks. He went through another crack and into a great cave formed by huge sandstone boulders that had fallen against each other.
A stack of firewood against one wall showed the place had been prepared, and there was a circle of stones and the blackened ashes and charcoal of old fires.
The stranger gathered sticks and commenced building a fire.
“Won’t they smell the smoke?”
“Not much chance. Except the way we came, there’s no way to get within half a mile of this place on horseback, and you know no cowhand is goin’ to walk unless he’s forced to. This hideout’s been used forty years or more, and nobody the wiser.”
From some unknown well of wisdom he said, “You just better hope no outlaw has turned lawman. It happens.”
The man had his fire going. He stood up, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Could happen,” he agreed. He looked curiously at his companion. “My name is Rimes, J. B. Rimes,” he said.
It was light enough to see him now. Rimes was short, wiry, sandy-haired. His blue eyes were cool, shrewd eyes. Obviously he had expected his name to bring a response, but when it did not he threw the other an odd look, went back into a corner, and emerged with a coffeepot and cups ….
“You surely must be somebody, stirring them up like that,” Rimes was saying. “I haven’t seen so much action in that town since the last Injun raid … quite a few years back.”
He said nothing because he had nothing to say. His head throbbed dully, and the reaction from his running had set in. He was dog-tired and bone-weary. But he was wary. He did not know this man who had befriended him, or why he had done so. He was grateful, but cynical. What did the man want? Who was J. B. Rimes?
“What do they want you for?” Rimes asked.
“It doesn’t matter, really.” How could he explain that he did not know why they wanted him? “I guess I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“It’s your business. You got a name?”
“Call me Jonas. And thanks for helping.”
“Forget it. Here, have some of this coffee while I have a look at that wound.”
His fingers went to the cut on the head.
“I don’t know what it was, either a bullet… or the fall I had.”
“Bullet,” Rimes said. “Somebody creased you.”
He went to the corner from which he had taken the coffeepot and brought out a pan. Then he went to a corner in the rocks and filled the pan with water.
Suddenly the man who called himself Jonas was frightened. He thought he must have blacked out for a minute or two. Rimes must have gotten water and made the coffee .. . and then there was a blankness. He remembered his head aching, remembered Rimes getting the coffeepot…. He suddenly felt cold.
Had Rimes noticed? Would it happen again? Was it simply exhaustion, or was something wrong with his head?
“Odd wound,” Rimes said, “looks like somebody was laying for you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He shot at you from above. Must have been in an upstairs window or on a balcony … maybe on a roof.”