Ruble Noon walked inside and poured another cup of coffee. It was reasonable to suppose that the tree house would be just the sort of place Tom Davidge might choose in which to hide whatever he had. There were a lot of things about Tom Davidge that might have been explained if one had only known his past. He had the ways and the style of an outlaw, or of a man who expected that someday he would need to make a last-ditch fight. His was obviously a devious mind, but that was not unexpected. Many men had come west to escape the consequences of some lawless act, or to find surroundings in which to begin anew. Whatever he was, after coming to this region Tom Davidge had apparently lived a good life and had built well.
Ruble Noon knew that he and Fan must get to the tree house. There was a good chance it was the place where Tom Davidge had hidden his money, and it was just possible that Peg Cullane was acting upon some clue, or some definite information that she had. On her own, she might locate the tree house and find whatever was there.
“You know,” he said, “I think we may be able to end all this. We will go to the tree house.”
He did not know where it was, and he said to the old man, “You can come with us. We will all go together.”
The old man looked up, smiling slyly. “I cannot go. I think the lady and the man with her will come back, an’ if I’m not here they’ll search for me. There’s no way to figure what they might do then … or what they might find.”
Then he added, “Not even you, Ruble Noon, want to tangle with the likes of German Bayles an’ Finn Cagle … not both of ’em together, you don’t.”
Chapter Seventeen
Finn Cagle and German Bayles … he knew of them. They had been involved in several sheep and cattle wars, and Bayles had ridden for a time as a shotgun guard for Wells Fargo. His activities had seesawed back and forth on both sides of the law. Cagle had always been on the wrong side, and he had served a term in Yuma’s Territorial Prison. Both men were professionals, and they were expensive to hire. And so was Lynch Manly, who had hunted him down on the Rio Grande.
Had Peg Cullane broken with Ben Janish? Or were these men her insurance that she would get a square deal? Or her kind of a deal, whatever it might be?
The thought that had come to him while the old man was speaking was simple enough. If they could find the money and get it into a bank in Denver, there would no longer be any reason for a fight.
Without getting the Davidge money, Peg could not afford to hire such men, nor would there be any reason to hire them. Ben Janish might just drift away. If not, he must be driven out; but the money was the thing. Get the money safely away from their grasping fingers and there was no longer a problem.
Denver … if he and Fan could find the money, they would have to get to Denver.
But first, the money, and that meant the tree house, but he did not know where the tree house was. Moreover, he dared not ask directly. The question would arouse the suspicions of the old man, and might even create a desire to act on his own … or to communicate with Peg Cullane.
He turned and went back inside and filled his cup with coffee … He carried it out to the porch, and took his time over it … The tree was a sycamore, and it grew against the face of a cliff. It was very little to start with, but it was something.
Carefully, he studied the area. There would be a trail of sorts toward the tree house, but it would not be an obvious one, for only Tom Davidge had gone there often. From where Ruble Noon stood he could see no cliffs, only trees and the mountains beyond.
“I was thinking,” he commented, “that Spanish soldier, if that’s what he was-the one you figure lived in the tree house-he must have had some troubling times, all alone like that, with nobody to help him watch for Indians. And if they chose to camp nearby he’d never dare leave the place.”
He was fishing for a clue-any clue. But the old man merely shrugged. “Long as he had enough grub,” he said, “nobody was goin’ to get at him.”
“I wonder how it was then,” Noon said. “Could he see very far? Were there many trees then?”
The old man grunted. “He couldn’t see very far at no time. Did you ever look at them trees? Some of ’em must’ve growed right there for years an’ years. Even if he could’ve seen past that sycamore, he’d never see through that curtain of pines. Why, those pines must be two, three hundred years old!”
“You mentioned that woman who’d been here. Did she ride toward the tree house? I mean, she might be there now, waiting for us.”
“Not unless she circled around. She went off down the trail yonder. If she circled, she’d have to come up the draw an’ the lower end of that meadow.” He pointed. “An’ there ain’t much chance of that.”
“Well,” Ruble Noon said, “we can ride over there without worrying too much. However,” he added casually, “we’d like to have the first chance to spot them. Is there any way of getting to the tree house without going the usual way?”
“Might be,” the old man said. “I reckon a body could ride down past the barn yonder, then toiler around the corral. That would keep him out of sight most of the way. Last few times he was here, Tom Davidge went thataway.”
“Thanks. We’ll be back, but if anybody should ask, you haven’t seen anyone.”
They mounted their horses and rode past the barn. “I was fishing,” Ruble commented. “I had no idea how to get there.”
Beyond the corral they struck a dim trail into the bed of a stream that skirted the base of a cliff. When they had gone something less than a mile the stream curved away from the cliff; but against the cliff there was a wall of pines, and beyond the pines they could see the wide-spreading limbs of a huge old sycamore.
Ruble Noon drew rein and listened. There was no sound except the wind in the trees, a faint rustling from the stream, and somewhere the sound of a walking horse-a horse that walked, then paused, then walked on again.
On their right, under a slight overhang screened by the pines, was a place where horses had been tied, to judge by the droppings and the hoof marks. A pole had been notched into the rock wall to serve as a hitching rail.
Ruble Noon swung down, then moved forward and leaned against a tree, looking toward the direction of the approaching horse.
Fan Davidge got down quickly and moved toward the sycamore, which offered concealment enough for two people.
Suddenly the rider came into sight – it was Miguel Lebo!
Ruble Noon stepped into the open. “Miguel! What’s happened?”
“They are coming, amigo. All of them. They rode out very suddenly this morning after they took much time to study a carta … a map, you know. I looked at it after they left, and it was a map of the rancho of Senor Davidge. It showed this place, and I hear one man say, “That must be where they go.’ And another say, ‘Then it is there.’ And then they all go to their horses to ride.
“Henneker, he knows of this place, and he told me how to get here fast by the old outlaw trail, and I came. They are close behind me.”
Ruble Noon turned quickly. “Fan … go into the tree house and search it. And see if there’s a way out. Lebo, duck into the rocks near the base of the tree. If worse comes to the worst, we’ll make our stand there.”
Lebo was wearing two extra cartridge belts, and Ruble Noon dug into the grub sack for extra cartridges, refilling his pockets. Then he climbed the tree behind Fan and passed the grub sack to her.
The gigantic sycamore had crushed itself against the rock wall, growing into a natural espalier that offered both a ladder giving access to the ledge, as well as a screen hiding the ancient cliff house behind it.
Dropping back to the ground, he squatted on his heels beside Lebo. The Mexican tipped his hat back on his head and grinned at Noon.
“Have any trouble at the ranch?” Noon asked.