“It does not entirely exist. The place does, and the cave does, and the hand operated elevator did once exist. Most of the timbers connected with it have been burned for firewood…I saw it when I was nineteen…The house built in front of the cave was something dreamed up by me. Somebody, probably a prospector, had built a kind of a shack in front of the cave, but the shack had fallen in when I saw it, so I imagined my own kind of house there.”
The fight in the bunkhouse, where Noon uses the rolled-up magazine as a weapon, was also supposedly an event from Louis’s life. My memory, possibly faulty, suggests it happened onboard a ship.
In the piles of papers that Dad left behind I discovered two early and considerably less refined openings for the story:
Groove there, a wound scarred over. It was a long scar that lay along the side of his neck and felt like a narrow miss from a bullet.
It was then he found the blood matted in his hair and exploring fingers found another wound in his scalp. This also was apparently a wound where the bullet had entered his scalp, gone around his head and emerged at the back. It must have been this that knocked him unconscious.
Or had it? Was it not more likely that he had been knocked out when he fell from his horse?
For if he had fallen after the bullet they would have come up on him and shot him dead.
Or did they believe him dead?
He took four steps necessary to reach the horse. It was a sorrel and fine-looking animal, and it had been in good shape. Moreover, it was an animal built for speed and staying quality, a horse that must have run quite a distance judging from the dried lather on its sides.
The saddle was a good one, and there were saddlebags. In the saddlebags there was ammunition for a Colt pistol and for the .44 Winchester that lay on the ground near where he had fallen.
Behind the saddle there was a poncho and a blanket. There was also a suit-coat wrapped up with them.
There were no wounds on the horse. Therefore he had run the animal to death escaping from something or trying to get somewhere. There was a bullet scar on the cantle of the saddle, however.
Where to go. He did not even know in which direction he should walk, and any direction he chose might lead him into the very danger from which he had fled.
He paused, standing alone in all the emptiness. Even the short distance he had walked from the dead horse had somehow removed him from even that scarcely tangible connection with the world.
Nowhere did he know of such a plain as this except somewhere beyond the Mississippi. Hence there would be little use in going either north or south. And from the tracks on the prairie he had been coming from the east. Therefore the danger must lie in that direction.
But suppose he had turned the horse around and started back? Or that the horse had started back of his own volition? No matter…he would head west.
The rifle he carried might be an indication. He examined it and found the date…1873. So he knew that much. It was at least 1873 and probably later for the rifle seemed to have been used. He brought the lever down to check the load and found the action was damaged and would not work correctly. He started to throw the rifle away, then stopped. He knew the rifle was inoperative but nobody else did. He would keep it.
The sun rose behind him and he walked steadily westward. His head throbbed, and his leg was stiff. His neck was sore and he was thirsty. He tried not to think of that for there was no telling how long he might have to go without water.
How did he come to be where he was? Had he been with a cattle drive? A wagon train? Had he been shot at by Indians or was it white men?
For some reason he was almost sure it had been white men who pursued him. Why, he did not know, yet the idea persisted.
Why had he been running? Was he a coward? Or was he a criminal? Suppose the law wanted him for a murder?
He looked at the palms of his hands. They were not roughened by work, neither were they soft as a gambler’s might have been. Yet he wore a broadcloth suit, which was scarcely right for this country, and he had been riding a good deal for the inside of the legs had taken on a polish from saddle-wear.
Here is another version, which doesn’t get as far yet seems to be a bit more evolved:
He lay face down on the empty plain under a wide sky…around him the short-grass spread in every direction to the horizon.
His horse lay nearby, but the horse was dead.
Light was in the sky, although as yet there was no sun. Nor were there shadows, for this was a land without shadows for there was nothing, anywhere, to cast a shadow.
The dawn built angry red fires along the eastern sky, and the sun’s bow shot crimson arrows aloft where they splashed the clouds with faint pink.
Light came suddenly in this wide land, and with the dawn, the man’s fingers moved.
The fingers stirred upon the grass, and then for a long time nothing else happened, and then the man’s eyes opened.
Awareness came first, then his consciousness began to absorb impressions. He could see only his hand, his forearm, and beyond it the body of the saddled horse. An ant was investigating his hand.
For several minutes he lay perfectly still, having no inclination to move. Gradually, he thought of himself. He was alive…but where was he? How did he happen to be here? What had happened to him?
Drawing his hands back he got them under his shoulders and pushed himself up then drew his knees under him. Instantly he was aware of pain.
His head throbbed dully with a heavy ache that caused him to squint as he stared around him. One of his legs felt stiff and there was stiffness in his neck.
Carefully, he looked all around him, but there was nothing, nothing at all, anywhere.
Now the sun was above the horizon, and the immensity of the sky was frightening, the vastness of the world around him appalling.
He did not know whom he was, what he was, or where he was going. Nor, and this might be even more important, he did not know where he had been.
Lifting his fingers to his neck he found a faint scar there, a long scar that might have been the near miss of a bullet. The wound was just barely healed over.
Tentatively, feeling sure it would hurt, he lifted his hand to his head. His hair was matted with blood. He sat back on his heels and explored his scalp with gentle fingers. There was a furrow around his scalp where a bullet had cut a groove. At the end of it he found the bulge of the bullet itself. The powder charge must have been weak or the bullet had struck him when its strength was expended, and it must have been this that knocked him out.
Or had it been the fall from the horse? If they had seen him fall they could have come up on him and shot him dead…or did they believe him dead?
He took four steps to the horse. It was a magnificent sorrel, and in good shape. Moreover it was built for speed and staying power, and judging from the dried lather on its side, must have run quite a distance at some speed.
The saddle was a good one, and there were saddlebags. In the bags there was ammunition for a Colt pistol and for the .44 Winchester that lay on the ground near where he had fallen. Behind the saddle there was a poncho and a blanket. A suit-coat was wrapped up with them.
There were no wounds on the horse that he could see but there was blood beneath the horse so the wound must be there. There was a bullet scar on the cantle of the saddle, also.
Somebody had tried desperately to kill him, and that being so they might come back looking for the body or for his trail. If found here he could be killed at leisure.
There was no canteen on the saddle. Nor was there any food, so evidently he had not been travelling when they attacked him.
He stripped the saddle from the horse, tugging the girth from beneath it. The saddle was too heavy to carry and there was no place in which to hide it, yet he did n
ot wish the saddle to be found or they would know he was walking. He must bury the saddle and so lead them to believe he had mounted another horse and gone off somewhere.
Instinctively his hand went to his side, feeling for a knife, but no knife was there, nor was there a scabbard. What did that mean? The movement had been natural, practiced. Was he wearing different clothes now than he was used to?
When he had gone less than a hundred yards he found a buffalo wallow where he buried the saddle. There was a rock on the edge of the wallow and he placed it upright as a mark. It was unlikely that he would ever be back, but if he did return he knew where to find a good saddle.
He straightened up from burying the saddle and looked all about him. There were no tracks, anywhere…simply nothing.
He stood there thinking it out. Somebody had tried to kill him and had come close to doing it, and he had no idea why. He did not even know who he was or where he belonged or if he had a home or a wife. He did not know where he was or in which direction it was safe to travel.
He might be a criminal, an outlaw. Regardless of what he was, however, he did not know his enemies nor from which direction trouble might come. His tracks had come from the east; therefore danger must lie in that direction.
The rifle…he found the date, 1873. So it was at least 1873 and perhaps later for the rifle had seen use. Bringing the lever down to check the load he found the action was damaged and would not work correctly. Yet when he started to pitch the rifle away, he stopped. He knew the weapon was inoperative but nobody else did. He would keep it.
The beginning of the actual novel is, obviously, a significant improvement, and I suspect that at the time Louis wrote these two versions he had no idea of what he was going to do with the story. He was writing to see what came out. At the time, nothing beyond these few pages did, but a few months or years down the road this bare beginning evolved into the novel: The Man Called Noon.
Beau L’Amour
May 2019
Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour
NOVELS
Bendigo Shafter
Borden Chantry
Brionne
The Broken Gun
The Burning Hills
The Californios
Callaghen
Catlow
Chancy
The Cherokee Trail
Comstock Lode
Conagher
Crossfire Trail
Dark Canyon
Down the Long Hills
The Empty Land
Fair Blows the Wind
Fallon
The Ferguson Rifle
The First Fast Draw
Flint
Guns of the Timberlands
Hanging Woman Creek
The Haunted Mesa
Heller with a Gun
The High Graders
High Lonesome
Hondo
How the West Was Won
The Iron Marshal
The Key-Lock Man
Kid Rodelo
Kilkenny
Killoe
Kilrone
Kiowa Trail
Last of the Breed
Last Stand at Papago Wells
The Lonesome Gods
The Man Called Noon
The Man from Skibbereen
The Man from the Broken Hills
Matagorda
Milo Talon
The Mountain Valley War
North to the Rails
Over on the Dry Side
Passin’ Through
The Proving Trail
The Quick and the Dead
Radigan
Reilly’s Luck
The Rider of Lost Creek
Rivers West
The Shadow Riders
Shalako
Showdown at Yellow Butte
Silver Canyon
Sitka
Son of a Wanted Man
Taggart
The Tall Stranger
To Tame a Land
Tucker
Under the Sweetwater Rim
Utah Blaine
The Walking Drum
Westward the Tide
Where the Long Grass Blows
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains
Bowdrie
Bowdrie’s Law
Buckskin Run
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L’Amour (vols. 1–7)
Dutchman’s Flat
End of the Drive
From the Listening Hills
The Hills of Homicide
Law of the Desert Born
Long Ride Home
Lonigan
May There Be a Road
Monument Rock
Night Over the Solomons
Off the Mangrove Coast
The Outlaws of Mesquite
The Rider of the Ruby Hills
Riding for the Brand
The Strong Shall Live
The Trail to Crazy Man
Valley of the Sun
War Party
West from Singapore
With These Hands
Yondering
SACKETT TITLES
Sackett’s Land
To the Far Blue Mountains
The Warrior’s Path
Jubal Sackett
Ride the River
The Daybreakers
Sackett
Lando
Mojave Crossing
Mustang Man
The Lonely Men
Galloway
Treasure Mountain
Lonely on the Mountain
Ride the Dark Trail
The Sackett Brand
The Sky-Liners
THE HOPALONG CASSIDY NOVELS
The Riders of High Rock
The Rustlers of West Fork
The Trail to Seven Pines
Trouble Shooter
NONFICTION
Education of a Wandering Man
Frontier
The Sackett Companion: A Personal Guide to the Sackett Novels
A Trail of Memories: The Quotations of Louis L’Amour, compiled by Angelique L’Amour
POETRY
Smoke from This Altar
LOST TREASURES
Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures: Volume 1
No Traveller Returns
ABOUT LOUIS L’AMOUR
“I think of myself in the oral tradition— as a troubadour, a village taleteller, the man in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way I’d like to be remembered—as a storyteller. A good storyteller.”
IT IS DOUBTFUL that any author could be as at home in the world re-created in his novels as Louis Dearborn L’Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally “walked the land my characters walk.” His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L’Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.
As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family’s frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.
Spurred by an eager curiosity and a desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L’Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs, including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, miner, and officer in the Transportat
ion Corps during World War II. He was a voracious reader and collector of books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.
Mr. L’Amour “wanted to write almost from the time I could talk.” After developing a widespread following for the many frontier and adventure stories he wrote for fiction magazines, Mr. L’Amour published his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 120 books is in print; there are more than 300 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.
His hardcover bestsellers include The Lonesome Gods, The Walking Drum (his twelfth-century historical novel), Jubal Sackett, Last of the Breed, and The Haunted Mesa. His memoir, Education of a Wandering Man, was a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations and adaptations of many L’Amour stories are available from Random House Audio.
The recipient of many great honors and awards, in 1983 Mr. L’Amour became the first novelist ever to be awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the United States Congress in honor of his life’s work. In 1984 he was also awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Reagan.
Louis L’Amour died on June 10, 1988.