ill-fitting jacket, he opened the closet and took down one of the coats, a city man's black broadcloth coat, excellently tailored. He slipped it on ... a perfect fit!
The clothes were his, the house was his. He had the deed in his pocket. But obviously the cabin had been occupied by Ruble Noon before the deed was made out ... no doubt it came to him as part payment for what he was to do, or as an outright gift.
Suppose then that Tom Davidge had been the "Nebraska" cattleman who originally hired him? No . . . the Pinkerton report said that cattleman had been a friend to Tom Davidge.
Davidge had permitted outlaws to stop on his land before, so why not Ruble Noon?
Four men ... he had taken money to kill four men.
He got up and walked to the window and looked outside. Sunlight fell through the pines and the raw-boned ridges were starkly beautiful. In this place there was only the wind, and sometimes the rain, the snow, and the cold. Here change came slowly; a rock crumbled, a tree grew, a root pushed deeper into a crevice, forcing wide the jaws of rock. Here there was only one problem, the problem of existence alone. Down there in the valleys where men walked there were many problems.
He went over to the bookshelves and looked at the titles: Locke's Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Mills's On Liberty, Blackstone's Commentaries on the law, and dozens of others. Could the man who read such books kill for hire? If so, what had happened to him?
The Pinkerton report had accounted in general outline for six years of his life, but what of the time before that? What of the time before he arrived in that Missouri town and went to work for a tie-cutting camp? If he was a mystery to others, he was even more of a mystery to himself.
Ben Janish, now ... Ben had tried to kill him, and he had apparently taken payment to kill Ben, but he felt no desire to kill him, or anyone else.
Was that why Ben Janish had tried to kill him - because he knew he was a hunted man? Or had he himself tried to kill Janish and failed, and been shot in return?
He knew what he had to do. He must go back, search out his past; he must find out who and what he was. He would go to El Paso. He had the address of Dean Cullane.
He went to the closet again and carefully went through the pockets of every garment. There were no letters, no papers, no addresses .. . nothing.
The desk next. Again failure. There was a quantity of writing paper, there was ink, and there were pens, and there was an account book with a list of figures in it, apparently sums of money running into several thousands, but there was no clue unless it was the initials after several of the sums.
Suddenly he thought of the mirror ... he had not looked in a mirror since he had become "Jonas," and he had no idea what he looked like.
The face he saw was strange. It was a rather triangular face, with strong cheekbones and a strong jaw. It was a handsome face, in a rugged way. He studied it critically, but saw nothing there that reminded him of anyone or anything.
His eyes went to the patch of bandage on his skull, which needed changing. He removed it, and then, after getting a fire started, he heated water and bathed the wound with care.
He went back to the mirror. There was an older scar there, evidently from a severe blow on the skull. The present cut had glanced across a corner of it, ripping his scalp.
He searched about, found a small drawer of medical supplies, and bandaged the wound again. It was healing fast, and a bandage would soon not be needed. A bandage attracts attention, and he hoped he could do without it before he reached El Paso.
Finding a carpetbag in the closet, he packed a suit, several shirts, and a few other necessary items; then he went out to the stable, stripped the gear from the dun, and turned it loose.
At the mirror he trimmed the several days' growth of beard, and sat down and shined the boots he was wearing. From some storehouse of memory he remembered
The clothes were his, the house was his. He had the deed in his pocket. But obviously the cabin had been occupied by Ruble Noon before the deed was made out ... no doubt it came to him as part payment for what he was to do, or as an outright gift.
Suppose then that Tom Davidge had been the "Nebraska" cattleman who originally hired him? No . . . the Pinkerton report said that cattleman had been a friend to Tom Davidge.
Davidge had permitted outlaws to stop on his land before, so why not Ruble Noon?
Four men ... he had taken money to kill four men.
He got up and walked to the window and looked outside. Sunlight fell through the pines and the raw-boned ridges were starkly beautiful. In this place there was only the wind, and sometimes the rain, the snow, and the cold. Here change came slowly; a rock crumbled, a tree grew, a root pushed deeper into a crevice, forcing wide the jaws of rock. Here there was only one problem, the problem of existence alone. Down there in the valleys where men walked there were many problems.
He went over to the bookshelves and looked at the titles: Locke's Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Mills's On Liberty, Blackstone's Commentaries on the law, and dozens of others. Could the man who read such books kill for hire? If so, what had happened to him?
The Pinkerton report had accounted in general outline for six years of his life, but what of the time before that? What of the time before he arrived in that Missouri town and went to work for a tie-cutting camp? If he was a mystery to others, he was even more of a mystery to himself.
Ben Janish, now ... Ben had tried to kill him, and he had apparently taken payment to kill Ben, but he felt no desire to kill him, or anyone else.
Was that why Ben Janish had tried to kill him - because he knew he was a hunted man? Or had he himself tried to kill Janish and failed, and been shot in return?
He knew what he had to do. He must go back, search out his past; he must find out who and what he was. He would go to El Paso. He had the address of Dean Cullane.
He went to the closet again and carefully went through the pockets of every garment. There were no letters, no papers, no addresses .. . nothing.
The desk next. Again failure. There was a quantity of writing paper, there was ink, and there were pens, and there was an account book with a list of figures in it, apparently sums of money running into several thousands, but there was no clue unless it was the initials after several of the sums.
Suddenly he thought of the mirror ... he had not looked in a mirror since he had become "Jonas," and he had no idea what he looked like.
The face he saw was strange. It was a rather triangular face, with strong cheekbones and a strong jaw. It was a handsome face, in a rugged way. He studied it critically, but saw nothing there that reminded him of anyone or anything.
His eyes went to the patch of bandage on his skull, which needed changing. He removed it, and then, after getting a fire started, he heated water and bathed the wound with care.
He went back to the mirror. There was an older scar there, evidently from a severe blow on the skull. The present cut had glanced across a corner of it, ripping his scalp.
He searched about, found a small drawer of medical supplies, and bandaged the wound again. It was healing fast, and a bandage would soon not be needed. A bandage attracts attention, and he hoped he could do without it before he reached El Paso.
Finding a carpetbag in the closet, he packed a suit, several shirts, and a few other necessary items; then he went out to the stable, stripped the gear from the dun, and turned it loose.
At the mirror he trimmed the several days' growth of beard, and sat down and shined the boots he was wearing. From some storehouse of memory he remembered
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