Novel 1970 - The Man Called Noon (v5.0) Page 2

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Old scar on your skull. Looks as if somebody had clobbered you before, sometime or other. This here bullet cut right across it just like somebody had aimed it.”

  An old scar? He might have many of them. He had no idea what he even looked like, let alone what scars might be on his body.

  “Jonas…that’s not a familiar name,” Rimes commented.

  “Maybe that’s why I use it.”

  “Good a reason as any.” Rimes squatted on his heels, stoking the fire. “Whoever shot at you didn’t want to be seen. Figured you for a mighty dangerous man.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It figures. There’s a good many men running around who’d shoot you for fifty dollars, pick a fight and make it look all fair and honest where witnesses can swear it was a fair fight; so if they tried to ambush you they did it because they figured you’d shoot back, and fast.”

  He made no reply. The coffee tasted good, and when Rimes started frying bacon his stomach growled. He stirred uncomfortably.

  “That empty holster worries me,” Rimes said.

  “I fell from a window, I think. I must have lost the gun when I fell, or a minute or so before.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  After a moment Rimes said, “I can let you have a gun. A man in your position had better go heeled.”

  Rimes went into the recess in the cave wall again and returned with a Colt and a box of shells. He tossed the gun to Jonas, who caught it deftly and spun the cylinder to check the loads, then holstered it.

  “Well,” Rimes said dryly, “you’ve used a gun before.” He handed him the box of cartridges. “You may need these. I see you have some empty loops.”

  “Thanks.”

  The gun was new, a Frontier model, and the weight of it on his hip was comforting. “You trust me,” Jonas commented.

  Rimes’s eyes wrinkled at the corners. “You need me,” he said. “I don’t need you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Because, Mister Jonas whoever-you-are, you’re playing it by ear. You don’t know which way to turn. You don’t know who your enemies are, or even if you have any friends, or where to find them if you do. You need me to bleed for information until you get yourself located.

  “You’re a lost man, Jonas. I’ve been watching and listening. I never knew a man so alert for every word that might be a clue, or so jumpy at every sound. Everything you say or do, you do as if you expected it to blow up in your face.”

  “Supposing you are right? What then?”

  Rimes shrugged. “I don’t give a damn. I was just commenting, and as far as you bleeding me for information, just go ahead, and bleed me. I’ll help all I can. After all, you’d help me.”

  “Would I?”

  Rimes gave a faint smile. “Well, how should I know? Maybe you wouldn’t.”

  They ate the bacon from the frying pan, picking out the strips with their fingers.

  “What are you going to do?” Rimes asked. He was interested, for this man had problems of a sort not many would encounter, and as a man interested in puzzles, he was curious as to what Jonas would do now.

  “Look for the pieces, and try to fit them together.”

  “Somebody wanted to kill you. They still want you dead. Seems to me you’re running a long chance, trying to pick up those pieces. The first man you run into may be one of those who are out to kill you.”

  “What about you?” Jonas asked.

  “I sit tight. In a few minutes I am going to climb out of there and set up a signal. The sun will catch that signal and they’ll read it off across the valley. Then they’ll come for me.”

  “And when we get where we’re going?”

  Rimes smiled thinly. “Why, there just might be somebody there that knows you. It just might happen.” His smile widened. “That’s why I gave you the gun.”

  Chapter 2

  *

  ON THE SECOND morning he opened his eyes on a tiny band of sunlight that streamed through the smoke hole, which was itself a mere crack in the rock above the fire. He had worried about their smoke being seen until Rimes told him it was covered by brush and a cedar that leaned above it. The rising smoke thinned itself out and vanished in rising through the foliage.

  Rimes was asleep.

  For several minutes the man who called himself Jonas lay perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling of the cave. He felt restless and on edge. He was too close to his enemies, whoever they were.

  The day of rest and thinking over his problem had brought him no nearer to a solution. He had no memory of his past. He had no knowledge of who he was, where he had come from, or what he was supposed to be doing there.

  Well, the solution to that seemed simple enough. He must first of all discover his identity, and from that he would know all he needed to know. Or so he hoped.

  Rimes had commented on it. “Bronc fighter I knew one time he lit on his head and it was seven or eight months before he knew where he was, or who. But I’ve heard of others who came out of it very soon.

  “And then there’ve been some,” he had added slyly, “who could remember but didn’t want folks to realize it.”

  “That isn’t true of me.”

  “You ought to tie in somewhere.” Rimes was puzzled. “Of course, I’ve been out of touch, and I don’t know of any outlaw outfit working this country except ours—and if there was a range war I think I’d have heard of it.

  “You dress like a city man, but I’ve got a hunch you’re not one. You might be a gambler who killed some citizen back yonder, but that wouldn’t fit you being shot from ambush, if you were.”

  He had lighted his pipe with a stick from the fire. “What are you planning to do now?” he asked.

  Jonas hesitated, wondering how much to tell; but this man had helped him, and seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Did you ever hear of a man named Dean Cullane?” he asked.

  Rimes’s eyes were on his pipe bowl. When he looked up they were bland, too bland. “Can’t say I have.”

  “Or Ben Janish?”

  “Everybody knows Janish.” Rimes drew on his pipe, then dropped the stick into the fire. “Seems to me you’re remembering things.”

  “No, I heard them talking back there by the railroad. Probably there’s no connection.”

  Now, lying upon his back in the cave, he considered the conversation. Had Rimes known Cullane’s name? And if so, why had he concealed the fact?

  The more Jonas considered his situation the more he wanted to be alone. He needed to get away to some quiet place, where he might recover some memories while not risking his neck by encountering unknown enemies.

  He needed time to think, to plan, time to remember. Rimes had explained nothing. He had not told him where he was or where they were going; he had only implied that he might encounter an enemy there…or anywhere.

  Was Rimes truly his friend? Or was he trying to learn something from him, some plan, some secret? How had Rimes happened there so opportunely? Of course, that could happen. Many men rode freight trains, and it was logical enough that they should help each other.

  Rimes was no youngster. He was a man who had been through the mill. His advice to Jonas had been good. “Tell nobody anything. Say you had a run-in with the law, and let it go at that. Folks’ll be almighty curious, being what they are, but if I were you I’d tell them nothing…nothing at all.”

  Rimes had taken him up the steep, winding stair, part natural, and part cut by hand, to where the signal mirrors were placed on the mountainside.

  The valley below was relatively flat, semi-arid country, the hillsides dotted with cedar, the bottom largely sagebrush. Beyond lay a string of small mountains, actually low, rugged hills, broken by canyons and cliffs. “There’s fifty trails going into those hills,” Rimes commented, “and most of them just circle around, or go nowhere.”

  Jonas held up his hands and looked at them. What had they do
ne? Why had men tried to kill him? Why, even now, did they search for him? Had these hands killed? Oh had they been used for some good purpose? Were they the hands of a doctor, a lawyer, a laborer, a cowhand? Had they swung a hammer or an axe? That they were strong hands was obvious.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. He might never discover his identity. He might be shot by the first person he saw; and if he was forced into a fight, what would he do? What manner of man was he?

  The blow on his skull had wiped clean the slate of memory, so why not pull out now? Why not go far, far away and begin anew?

  Yet how did he know that some memory, now in his subconscious, might draw him right back to the scene of his trouble? How could he go far away when he did not know in which direction to go? His enemies might be anywhere. What he had to do now was find out who and what he was.

  He got up, tugged on his boots, and stamped his feet into them. He belted on his gun and reached for his hat.

  “Well,” Rimes said, “you’re no cowhand. A cowhand always puts his hat on first.”

  Rimes threw off his blankets. “You go up on the lookout and see if you see anybody. I’ll put some breakfast together.”

  It was bright and clear on the morning side of the mountain. He glanced across the valley, picked up a tiny cloud of dust, looked away and back again. It was still there, still coming.

  Rimes came up to look. “It’ll take them an hour to get here,” he said, “the way they’ve got to come. Let’s hang on the feed bag.”

  As they ate, Rimes explained. “Place we’re heading for is a ranch. Owned by a girl whose pa just died a while back. Her name is Fan Davidge. Her foreman is Arch Billing. They are good folks.”

  “Running an outlaw hangout?”

  “It’s a long story. It’s come to a place where they no longer can control it. Arch Billing is a fine man, but he’s no gun-hand.”

  “Don’t they have a crew?”

  “Only man left is an oldster. The outlaws do the ranch work, and do it almighty well.”

  Together they gathered up, washed the frying pan and coffeepot, and stowed them away in the corner. By the time they reached the mountainside they could see a buckboard, only a mile or so off, and coming on now at a spanking trot.

  There were at least two people in the buckboard. Rimes studied it through his field glasses. “Fan Davidge is aboard. Leave her alone.”

  “Is she somebody’s woman?”

  “No…but she’s spoken for.”

  “By whom?”

  They had started down the slope and they went six paces before Rimes replied, “Ben Janish.”

  “Is he the bull of the woods around here?”

  “You bet your sweet life he is, and don’t you be forgetting it, not for a moment. He won’t be home right now, but Dave Cherry will be, and he’s nearly as bad. You cross them and you won’t last a minute.”

  The man who called himself Jonas considered that. “I am somehow not worried,” he said after a moment. “I have searched myself and found no fear, but one thing I can tell you. I remember nothing, though, as I told you, I heard Ben Janish’s name mentioned.”

  “So?”

  “He was the man who shot me. He was hunting me.”

  Rimes stared at him. “You mean Ben Janish shot at you and missed?”

  “He didn’t miss. He just didn’t hit me dead center. Rimes, you’d better leave me here. I don’t know why Ben Janish wants me. I have no idea except that somebody must have paid him to kill me. Now I’d be a copper-riveted fool to ride right into his bailiwick, wouldn’t I?”

  The buckboard clattered up over the rock-strewn desert and came to a halt opposite them. The dust drifted back and started to settle, and J. B. Rimes walked down, greeting Arch Billing. Jonas was not looking at Arch, but past him, at Fan Davidge.

  “There’s little time,” Billing said. “Mount up, boys.”

  “There’ll be just one of us, I—” Rimes began.

  “There will be two, Rimes. I am going along.”

  Rimes glanced at him, and then at Fan. “Your funeral,” he said, and gestured toward the pile of blankets in the back of the buckboard. “Climb in, then. But you’d better be good with that gun.”

  The buckboard started off, and they went at a fast trot. Obviously Billing did not wish to linger in the area. Their presence in such a lonely place would be difficult to explain, as far off a reasonable trail as they were.

  After a few minutes, Rimes asked, “Arch, is Ben in the valley?”

  “No. He hasn’t been around for a couple of weeks. El Paso, I reckon.”

  El Paso…Dean Cullane’s town.

  The man who called himself Jonas, and who might be Dean Cullane, drew a blanket around his shoulders, for the wind was chill. He did not know who he was, nor where he was going, but now he knew why. He was going to the ranch because a girl lived there.

  A girl named Fan…who had merely glanced at him.

  He was a fool.

  Chapter 3

  *

  HIS HAND TOUCHED his face. He was unshaved, of course, but there was a strong jaw, high cheekbones. There was quite a lot of money in his pockets, from what source he had no idea, and there were the letters and the legal document which he had not had the privacy to examine.

  The buckboard had started off across the valley, but when it reached a sandy wash it descended into it, and turned at right angles. The going was slower in the wash, but Jonas thought they could not be seen because of the high banks.

  There was no talking. Each of the occupants of the buckboard seemed busy with his or her own thoughts, and it provided time for Jonas to assay his position.

  He knew he was a hunted man, hunted either by the law or by some individual with power. The fact that Ben Janish, whom he assumed to be an outlaw and a gunman, had been hired to kill him made it seem doubtful that it was the law that was seeking him. That such a man as Ben Janish seemed to be had been hired to do it made him assume that he was known as a dangerous man.

  He now had three days’ growth of beard on his face and letting it grow might be a good idea. It might help to conceal his features from people who knew him, at least until he knew them.

  Several times they stopped to rest the horses, then went on. It was late afternoon when they drew up at a small seep and got down stiffly, stretching and brushing away some of the accumulated dust.

  Arch Billing helped Fan Davidge down, and she went to a rock at the water’s edge and dipped up water in a small tin cup and drank.

  Rimes began putting together a small fire, and then, taking the gear from the buckboard, he made coffee.

  Jonas sat on a rock apart from the others. The air was cool, and shadows began to gather in the hollows along the face of the hills. He heard a quail call…a quail, or an Indian? There was no echo, no aftersound, and he knew it was no Indian.

  How did he know that? Apparently it was only his name, his history, the actualities of his life that were missing. The habits, the instincts, the ingrained reactions remained with him.

  Fan Davidge glanced at him, faintly curious. Men usually wanted to talk to her, but this one held himself aloof. He had a sort of innate dignity, and he did not seem like the others.

  He was lean, but broad-shouldered, and altogether puzzling, resembling perhaps a scholar more than a western man; when he moved it was with the grace of a cat.

  She watched J. B. Nobody knew more of what was going on than Rimes did. He had offered no explanation except to say the man’s name was Jonas. Now he was crossing over to where Jonas was sitting.

  Rimes spoke in a low tone, but the night was clear, and in the desert sound carries easily. She could just barely distinguish the words.

  “If you want to light a shuck I can get you a horse.”

  “I’ll come along.”

  “Look, if Janish is there—”

  “Then I’ll have some answers, won’t I?”

  “Mister, I don’t know you, but I cotton to you. I don’t
like to see you get your tail in a crack.”

  There was no reply, and after a little while Rimes said, “Don’t you think I don’t know why you’re taking this chance, but you’ll waste your time.”

  “I had a feeling she was in trouble.”

  Rimes was silent for a moment. “Leave it lay. You’d just get yourself in a corner.”

  “I just got out of one.”

  “You’re not out of it yet. Not by a long shot. If I only knew—”

  “But you don’t, and neither do I.”

  “Well,” Rimes said after another pause, “there’s two or three you’d better fight shy of. Dave Cherry…he’s trouble. So’s John Lang. And there will be others, so watch your step.”

  His head ached and he was tired, and he continued to hold himself aloof. He thought of the coming night, and was conscious of the faintest sounds, of the smells of coffee, of bacon frying, of burning cedar, and of sagebrush. He got up and walked off a few feet, feeling sick and empty, surrounded by unknown dangers.

  A light step sounded behind him. It was Fan Davidge. “Please…you have been hurt,” she said. “You had better drink this.” She handed him a cup of coffee.

  “Thank you.” He looked straight into her eyes and liked what he saw there. He took the cup, and when she remained with him he said, “Don’t let me keep you from your supper.”

  “You should eat, too.”

  But neither moved, and finally he said, “I like the twilight, but there is little of it in the desert.”

  “Who are you, Jonas? What are you?” she asked.

  “I do not know.” He looked at her over his cup. “I am afraid that what I am is not something to be proud of, but I do not know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He touched his wound. “That…since that I can not remember. All I know is that somebody tried to kill me.”

  “You don’t know who it was?”

  “It was Ben Janish, but I don’t know why.”

  “Ben Janish! But then you mustn’t come to the ranch! He might be there even now.”