Read Online the Man Called Noon (1970) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis L'amour
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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?
Were they waiting for him to move? If so, why? If they wanted to kill him, why hadn't they tried it already?
He went over his every move. He had approached under cover of the brush and trees; he had been only momentarily in the open when he fed the horse and when he went into the house.
If somebody was waiting here, that somebody was waiting for him to do some expected thing he had not yet done. He evidently had not put himself in the line of fire yet; but why didn't the man move into a different position? If he had not done so, it must be because he could not without attracting attention. Which indicated that the unseen man, if there was one, was in a position where he would draw attention to himself if he moved. It would, no doubt, be a position with an easy escape route, in case his shot was a miss.
Suppose he himself had arrived at this place with a memory that was not confused? What would he have done? As there were no supplies in the adobe, and no sign of occupancy, it was likely he would have ridden away. No doubt that was exactly what he had done in the past. If the marksman believed that to be the case, where would he be? Obviously, somewhere along the road that led away from the ranch, hi some place that did not allow him to cover the ranch yard itself.
Was he imagining all this? Or was there actually someone hidden nearby, someone primed and ready to kill?
If there was a man waiting, he must be growing nervous and restless by now. It might be that he could be provoked into a move. But on the other hand, he might have the patience of an Indian and lie quiet, knowing that Noon must sooner or later leave the place.
He got up and went into the adobe, and crossed to the back room. He did not want to kill anyone, but neither did he want to be killed. He looked out the back window.
A dozen yards away there was a ditch masked by undergrowth. He studied it for a long moment. It looked inviting, too inviting. Glancing around, he saw a large olla such as the Mexicans use to cool water. On the bed lay an old blanket. He took it up, wrapped it around the olla, put his hat over the top, and thrust it up to the window. It looked like a man about to climb through. A rifleman, tense with waiting, might -
The olla had not been in position an instant when there was the crash of a volley ... more than two rifles ... three, at least. The olla shattered under his hand.
He raced for the front of the adobe and was in time to see a man running from behind the stable toward Noon's horse. If they got his horse he was trapped ... to be killed at leisure.
He never knew when he drew. The sight of the running man, the realization of what this meant, and his own draw must have been simultaneous. He heard the bellow of his gun in the close confines of the room ashe shot through the open door.
The runner took two steps, then stumbled and hit the ground. And then silence....
The bare, hard-packed earth of the yard was empty, except for the dead man and the horse. Nervously, the roan had moved nearer.
Keeping his voice low, Ruble Noon called to the horse, which looked toward him uncertainly.
A boot grated on gravel behind the adobe. They were coming for him. The roan was nearer now, no more than fifteen or twenty feet off. The long stable
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?
Were they waiting for him to move? If so, why? If they wanted to kill him, why hadn't they tried it already?
He went over his every move. He had approached under cover of the brush and trees; he had been only momentarily in the open when he fed the horse and when he went into the house.
If somebody was waiting here, that somebody was waiting for him to do some expected thing he had not yet done. He evidently had not put himself in the line of fire yet; but why didn't the man move into a different position? If he had not done so, it must be because he could not without attracting attention. Which indicated that the unseen man, if there was one, was in a position where he would draw attention to himself if he moved. It would, no doubt, be a position with an easy escape route, in case his shot was a miss.
Suppose he himself had arrived at this place with a memory that was not confused? What would he have done? As there were no supplies in the adobe, and no sign of occupancy, it was likely he would have ridden away. No doubt that was exactly what he had done in the past. If the marksman believed that to be the case, where would he be? Obviously, somewhere along the road that led away from the ranch, hi some place that did not allow him to cover the ranch yard itself.
Was he imagining all this? Or was there actually someone hidden nearby, someone primed and ready to kill?
If there was a man waiting, he must be growing nervous and restless by now. It might be that he could be provoked into a move. But on the other hand, he might have the patience of an Indian and lie quiet, knowing that Noon must sooner or later leave the place.
He got up and went into the adobe, and crossed to the back room. He did not want to kill anyone, but neither did he want to be killed. He looked out the back window.
A dozen yards away there was a ditch masked by undergrowth. He studied it for a long moment. It looked inviting, too inviting. Glancing around, he saw a large olla such as the Mexicans use to cool water. On the bed lay an old blanket. He took it up, wrapped it around the olla, put his hat over the top, and thrust it up to the window. It looked like a man about to climb through. A rifleman, tense with waiting, might -
The olla had not been in position an instant when there was the crash of a volley ... more than two rifles ... three, at least. The olla shattered under his hand.
He raced for the front of the adobe and was in time to see a man running from behind the stable toward Noon's horse. If they got his horse he was trapped ... to be killed at leisure.
He never knew when he drew. The sight of the running man, the realization of what this meant, and his own draw must have been simultaneous. He heard the bellow of his gun in the close confines of the room ashe shot through the open door.
The runner took two steps, then stumbled and hit the ground. And then silence....
The bare, hard-packed earth of the yard was empty, except for the dead man and the horse. Nervously, the roan had moved nearer.
Keeping his voice low, Ruble Noon called to the horse, which looked toward him uncertainly.
A boot grated on gravel behind the adobe. They were coming for him. The roan was nearer now, no more than fifteen or twenty feet off. The long stable
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