He explained about the ranch and about Fan Davidge, but he made no reference to the money Davidge was supposed to have hidden. “I need someone there to see she is not harmed, but I must warn you. Ben Janish is there, and Dave Cherry, John Lang, and some others.”
“I will do what I must.”
“Henneker and Arch Billing will help, but neither is a gunfighter.”
He told him, too, about Peg Cullane. He liked the tough, good-humored Mexican. Lebo had come from Sonora and was half Tarahumare, a wary, trail-wise man with no illusions.
Their escape had proved simple. They caught the train from Socorro, and had been dropped at the lonely wayside station where Ruble Noon had first boarded the train on his way south. The same train crew had been with them part of the way, and the long journey gave both Ruble and Lebo a chance to catch up on their sleep.
Ruble Noon checked his Winchester, and his handgun. While Lebo picketed the horses he walked out on the dark slope to listen. No shadows stirred on the mountainside below him, but he waited for some time, checking the night sounds. He loved the stillness, the coolness, the smell of greasewood and cedar.
At daylight Lebo rode away, and then Ruble Noon rode up the trail toward the ranch of the mute. He heard no sound, and there should have been the sound of chickens, some stir of movement, and there was none.
He rode forward slowly, his rifle in his hand, his eyes roving, missing nothing.
The old Mexican lay sprawled on the sand, and he could see that he had been shot at least twice. The horses and cattle were gone. Ruble stepped down and touched the old man’s cheek. It was cold.
Inside the cabin everything had been pulled apart in a hasty search … for what? Had they expected the money to be hidden here?
Was the killing of the old Mexican wanton brutality? Or had they connected the Mexican with him?
He looked around uneasily. He saw nothing suspicious, but he did not like the feeling of the place. Was he watched? Turning slowly, he let his eyes sweep the ridges, without tilting his head back or seeming to be searching. Finally his eyes went to the direction of the shaft that offered access to the cabin above. He could see the cliff, rising sheer.
They had come, killed the old man, stolen the stock, and gone away… or had they? Suppose they waited in ambush here as they had at that other ranch? It would be in the pattern.
The moment the thought occurred, he was sure he was right.
But why hadn’t they fired? Were they watching to see what he might do? Where he might go? Suppose they knew nothing of the cabin above? Or of the secret elevator in the shaft? They might merely have guessed at a connection with the old man without knowing what it was, and of course the old Mexican could not tell them. In any case, it was a cruel and heartless murder that could serve no purpose.
To observe the ranch with any success, a watcher must be high enough to see the cabin and the corral, which meant the pinnacle opposite, or the ridge to the west.
What worried him was that somebody obviously had learned something about the working methods of Ruble Noon, for they had known of the ranch near El Paso, and they had discovered this place, probably by working out from the lonely station. Or had they a clearly marked map of his hide-outs? Might not any place he chose to go be watched? If they knew more about him than he himself could remember, he might easily walk into a trap.
He found a shovel, and having wrapped the old man in his blankets, he buried bun in a shallow grave. As he worked he considered the situation.
He must return to the shaft to get to the cabin on the mountain, and once there he must map his future actions, changing all past patterns, if possible. He must never do what first came to mind, but always something different. He must change his way of dressing, even his walk.
The options his position offered to a rifleman on the ridge of the pinnacle were not many. Perfect fields of fire are rare, for always there are blind spots. East of the cabin, on the way he must go, there were several such blind spots.
His horse had walked off a few steps, and he did not like the idea of going after it. The horse stood in an exposed position, and he had no idea what the orders of the watchers might be … if there were watchers. He did not want to take the risk.
As he turned to the house he glanced toward the east. The east end of the house was one of those blind spots. A man could cover it only if he were among the broken slabs at the foot of the cliff, and this was an unlikely spot. The only field of fire it offered was in case a man started toward it, and by daylight there was no escape from the position.
Yet if he was to escape, that was the direction he must take. Turning to call the horse, he caught a glint of sunlight from the pinnacle…. A rifle barrel?
He stepped into the adobe and leaned over a sack of carrots beside the door. Earth still clung to them. Evidently this was the last chore the old man had performed before being killed. He took out a carrot and went outside. The horse came toward him, and Ruble Noon backed into the door, catching the bridle.
He was going to release the horse, so he stripped the saddle and bridle to leave the animal free, then he loosely tied the sack of carrots in its place. He hoped it would fool a marksman into believing he was riding low on the horse, trying to escape. At this distance it would be impossible to see the difference.
After tying the horse at the door, he went to the east wall with the shovel and the poker from the fireplace. He broke the hard-packed earth of the floor and dug down quickly beneath the rock wall. The stones had been placed without mortar, and one fell from place. It was the work of only a few minutes to remove several more.
After taking a long drink from the water in one of the ollas, he picked up a rifle, untied the horse, and hitting it a resounding slap on the rump, he ducked for the hole at the moment the horse bolted away from the door. He hoped the running horse would focus their attention, and it did.
He heard the slam of a shot, and then another. The horse, unharmed, went racing toward the railroad, dribbling carrots from the bullet-split sack. Ruble Noon lay gasping in the shelter of the rocks.
Down on the flat the horse had slowed to a walk and the sack looked empty. By now the watchers must suspect that they had been tricked, or that he had dropped from the horse somewhere on the flat.
Would they come searching for him? Or would they think he was still inside the adobe?
It took him nearly half an hour of cautious worming through the rocks to reach the shaft. No tracks showed on the trail, and he took time to brush away those he had left Then he got into the cave, lowered the platform, and pulled himself up. At the top he made the ropes fast, and squatting near the shaft, studied the dust of the cave.
Nothing seemed to have been disturbed, but he was not a trusting man, and he could not be sure. At the door of the closet he listened, but heard nothing on the other side, and opened the door. The closet was empty.
Did anyone know of this place, now that Davidge was dead? He doubted it, but he could not be certain of that.
The cave was lighted only from the opening that looked up toward the sky. He heard no sound but the beating of his own heart and his muted breathing. Beyond the door death might lie in wait … but when had that not been so?
Whenever a man turned a corner or opened a door he might face death. Now or later, it came to the same thing, but he was not a fatalist. He knew that if he became careless he might die; or if someone came who moved a little quieter, it might be a little swifter, a little surer.
He lifted a hand to open the door when it opened in his face, suddenly and without warning. His gun slid into his hand without conscious thought, and his finger was tightening on the trigger when he caught himself. It was Fan… Fan Davidge was here.