{"product_id":"the-man-called-noon-isbn-9780804126571","title":"The Man Called Noon","description":"In one swift moment, a fall wiped away his memory. All he knew for certain was that  someone wanted him dead—and that he had better learn why. But everywhere he turned  there seemed to be more questions—or people too willing to hide the truth behind  a smoke screen of lies. He had only the name he had been told was his own, his mysterious  skill with a gun, and a link to a half million dollars’ worth of buried gold as evidence  of his past life. Was the treasure his? Was he a thief? A killer? He didn’t have  the answers, but he needed them soon. Because what he still didn’t know about himself,  others did—and if he didn’t unlock the secret of his past, he wasn’t going to have  much of a future.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    SOMEBODY WANTED TO kill him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      The idea was in his mind when he opened his eyes to the darkness of a narrow space between two buildings. His eyes came to a focus on a   rectangle of light on the wall of the building opposite, the light   from a second-story window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He had fallen from that window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Lying perfectly still, he stared at the rectangle of light as if his   life depended on it, yet an awareness was creeping into his   consciousness that the window no longer mattered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Only one thing mattered now-escape. He must get away, clear away, and   as quickly as possible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    There was throbbing in his skull, the dull, heavy beat that was   driving everything else from his brain. Impelled by what urge he   could not guess, he lifted a hand toward his face. There was a twinge   of pain from the arm, then he touched his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He did not know to whom the features belonged. Gingerly, he touched   his skull . . . there was half-caked blood, and a deep wound in his   scalp. His hand dropped to his shirt, which was stiffening with blood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Somebody had tried to kill him, and he felt sure that they would try   again, and would not cease trying until he was dead. Nothing else   remained in his memory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Stiffly, he turned his head, looking first one way and then the   other. In the one direction there was blackness, in the other was   light . . . a street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He was conscious of a faint stirring from the darkness behind the   buildings. Something or someone was creeping along in the blackness,   some enemy intent upon his destruction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Heaving himself from the ground, he half fell against the building   behind him. He remained there for a moment, struggling to gather   himself for an effort. For he must escape. He had to get away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A hand went to his hip. There was a holster there, but it was empty.   Dropping to his knees, he felt quickly around him, but discovered   nothing. His gun, then, must be up there, in that room. It had fallen   or had been taken from him before he fell from the window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He started blindly toward the street. He could hear music from the   building beside him, a murmur of voices, then muffled laughter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Staggering into the light, he paused and stared stupidly to left and   right. The street was empty. Drunken with pain and shock, he started   across the street and into the shadows of a space between the   buildings diagonally across from the one he had left behind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He had no idea where he was going, only that he must get away; he   must be free of the town. Beyond the buildings between which he   walked there were scattered outhouses and corrals, and a few   lightless shacks, and then he was walking in grass, tall grass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Pausing, he glanced back. There was no pursuit, so why was he so sure   there would be pursuit?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He went on, his brain numb with the pounding ache, until he saw   before him a single red eye. Staring at it, he went ahead toward the   red light. Suddenly he was beside it and his toe stumbled against the   end of a railroad tie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    To his left the rails glimmered away into a vast darkness, on the   right they led to a small railroad station. He had taken a stumbling   step toward it when he brought up short, realizing his enemies would   surely look for him there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He stopped, swaying on his feet, trying to order his thoughts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He did not know who he was. Or what he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    His fingers felt of his clothing. The coat was tight across the   shoulders and the sleeves were a bit short, but it seemed to be of   good material.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He glanced back at the town, but beyond the fact that it was a very   small town it told him nothing. There had been hitching rails along   the street, a few cow ponies standing there. Hence it was a western   town.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He had heard the whistle a second time before it dawned upon him that   a train was coming, and he would, if he remained where he was, be   caught in the full glare of the headlight. He dropped into the grass   not an instant too soon as the train came rushing out of the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A train offered escape, and escape would give him a chance to   consider, to sort out what must have happened, to discover who he was   and why he was pursued.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    When the train had passed and drawn up at the station, he studied it   with care. There were at least three empty boxcars, their doors   invitingly open. Yet as he considered his chances of getting into the   nearest one he heard a rush of horses' hoofs and twisted about from   where he lay in the grass to see a party of horsemen dash up to the   train and split into two groups to ride along both sides, checking   every car, every rod and bumper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He eased back farther into the grass, but he could hear them talking   as they drew near.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \". . . a waste of time. He was in bad shape, with blood all over, and   staggering. He could never have made it to the tracks, believe me. If   he's not hid somewheres in town he's lyin' out yonder in the grass,   bleedin' to death.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"He was a tough man for a tenderfoot.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I ain't so sure he was-a tenderfoot, I mean. Ben Janish swore he'd   got him, and did you ever know Ben to miss? That gent must have an   iron skull!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Aw, he's dead, all right! Dead or dyin'.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    They turned at the caboose and walked their horses back along the   train. They were a dozen yards away when the whistle blew. Rising, he   ran for the nearest empty car. A rider started to turn in his saddle,   so he changed direction and leaped for the rear ladder and swung   between the cars and out of sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He had a moment only until the cars would be moving, taking him right   by the lights from the station, and he went up the ladder and lay   down flat alongside the catwalk, throwing an arm across it to hang on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The train bumped, started, bumped again, and gathered speed. Still he   lay quiet, his heart pounding. Was somebody riding the caboose? Had   he been seen from its windows?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The train whistled, the cars rattled over the rail ends and gathered   speed. He pulled himself along, still lying flat, until he was right   over the door of the empty car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Did he dare try to hang over the edge, then swing into the door? If   he fell he would fall free of the tracks, but could easily break a   leg if not his neck. The train was now moving fast, the lights of the   station had disappeared, and soon the brakeman would be coming along   the catwalk, checking the train.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Easing along the roof of the car, he looked over. The door was there,   open and inviting. He worked his body around, his fingers clinging to   the cracks between the boards of the roof. He let one leg over, then   the other, holding only by his fingertips. He lowered his body down,   moved his hands one by one to a grip on the edge of the car roof,   then swung his body in and let go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He fell sprawling on the floor of the car, and for a moment he lay   still, gasping for breath. After a long time he got up and staggered   to the door. Leaning his shoulder against the car wall beside the   door, he looked out into the night. There were stars, and the night   was cool, the wind coming soft off the sagebrush.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He tried to think. Who was he? A fugitive from the law?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Or were those men who had tried to find him lawless men, wanting to   kill him because of something he knew? Or because of something he   possessed?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Sodden with weariness, he sat down and leaned against the wall, his   body drained of strength, empty and sick. But he forced himself to   think.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Ben Janish . . . he had one name, at least. Ben Janish had been sent   to kill him, and Janish did not often miss. This implied that Janish   was expert at the business, and might have killed before. They had   spoken of him as a man with a reputation. Therefore it should not be   too difficult to find Ben Janish, and find out who he himself was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    But if Ben Janish had been sent to kill him, he had been sent by whom?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    They had said he was a tenderfoot, which implied he was new to the   West. If this was the case, why had he come west? And where had he   come from? Did he have a family? Was he married or single?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Well, he had the one clue. He must find out who Ben Janish was, and   where he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He had no mirror, and therefore no knowledge of what he looked like.   That he was tall was obvious, and by feeling his biceps he assured   himself that he was an uncommonly strong man. Tenderfoot he might be,   but he was no weakling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. One hand emerged with   a small sack that proved to contain ten gold eagles and some odd   coins. There was also a small but solid packet of greenbacks, but he   did not take the time to count them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The other pocket contained a strong clasp knife, a white   handkerchief, a waterproof matchbox, a tight ball of rawhide string,   and three keys on a key chain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The side pockets of the coat contained nothing at all, but the inside   pocket paid off with some kind of legal document and two letters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The letters were addressed to Dean Cullane, El Paso, Texas. Was that   who he was?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He spoke the name aloud, but it evoked no response in his memory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It was too dark to do more than make out the addresses on the   letters, and he returned them to his pocket to wait for a better   light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Well, Dean Cullane, if that is who you are, for a man with so much   money you certainly have a lousy tailor.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    El Paso . . . he said the name but it meant nothing to him. However,   it was his second lead. He would go to El Paso, go to the home of   Dean Cullane and see if he was recognized there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Yet . . . did he dare?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Somewhere along the tortured line of his thinking, he dozed off, but   was awakened when a rough hand grasped his shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Mister\"-the voice was low but anxious-\"don't you swing on me. I'm a   friend, and by the looks of that crowd waiting up the street, you   need a friend.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He was on his feet, shocked into clear-headedness. The train was   still moving, lights flashed past the doors, and they were entering a   town. \"What is it?\" he asked. \"What's happening?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"There's a big crowd up the street, mister, and they've got a rope.   They're fixing to hang you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Hang me? Why?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Don't stand there asking questions! When we pass that water tank,   you jump and run.\" The man pointed toward a dark, looming building.   \"There's a gap between that building and the corral. You can take it   running. At the end of the corral there's bushes, and right past the   corner of the corral there's a path goes through into the wash.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You take off up that wash for the hills, and if you can run, you'd   better. Don't leave the wash until you see a big boulder, kind of   greenish color, if it's light enough to see. When you get to that   boulder you do a hard right and go up the bank. There's a path . . .   follow it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The train was slowing now, and suddenly the man beside him dropped   into the night, and was running. In an instant he had done the same.   Even as he did so he wondered at the practiced ease with which he   accomplished it. His memory might be gone, but the habit patterns in   his muscles had not forgotten.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The water tank dripped into the dirt below, and there was a pleasant   smell of dampness as he went past. He was aware briefly of the feel   of cinders under his feet, the smell of coal smoke from the engine,   and steam drifting back from the exhaust.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He saw the huge old barn, the corrals nearby, and he ran into the   opening between, stretching his long legs and moving fast. The night   was cool. He caught the fresh smell of hay and the smell of manure   from the barns, and then he was past the corral.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Behind him men were shouting: \"Search the train! Don't let him get away!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He ducked into the black opening in the brush, was through it and   into the sand of the wash. His running slowed because of the heavy   going, but he plunged on until his heart was pounding so that it   frightened him. He really slowed down then, walking and trotting. For   a man who had been slugged on the head and who had been dead-tired a   short time before, he seemed to have remarkable endurance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He plodded on. The boulder loomed before him, and he turned and went   up the bank. Almost at once he was on a path that ran parallel to the   wash but a dozen feet above it, angling up the slope but under cover   from the brush.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The trail dipped down to a small creek. He knelt and drank a little,   and then as there seemed no other route he walked upstream in the   water. He had gone no more than a quarter of a mile when a low call   arrested him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Up here!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He turned and went up into the rocks, where his unknown friend stood waiting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Without a word the man turned and forced his way through a narrow   crack in the rocks, followed a path for perhaps forty yards, and then   ducked under some leaning boulders and into a small hollow among   brush and huge rocks. He went through another crack and into a great   cave formed by huge sandstone boulders that had fallen against each   other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A stack of firewood against one wall showed the place had been   prepared, and there was a circle of stones and the blackened ashes   and charcoal of old fires.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The stranger gathered sticks and commenced building a fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Won't they smell the smoke?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Not much chance. Except the way we came, there's no way to get   within half a mile of this place on horseback, and you know no   cowhand is goin' to walk unless he's forced to. This hideout's been   used forty years or more, and nobody the wiser.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     From some unknown well of wisdom he said, \"You just better hope no   outlaw has turned lawman. It happens.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The man had his fire going. He stood up, brushing his hands on his   jeans. \"Could happen,\" he agreed. He looked curiously at his   companion. \"My name is Rimes, J. B. Rimes,\" he said.","brand":"Random House Audio","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301147955429,"sku":"NP9780804126571","price":30.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780804126571_72e4aada-39b1-42e4-8b39-9fb80c780fd5.jpg?v=1742923168","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-man-called-noon-isbn-9780804126571","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}