Cemetery Jones 2 Page 4

  Ranch life had not been easy on Stubby Stone, either. He preferred the town. He had been happy in his saloon and gambling joint. The ranch had been Sam’s idea. Stubby would have liked Sam to stay and run it, but that had been impossible under the circumstances—the shady circumstances. Mary had faith. He pretended, but he was far from sure that Sam would reply to his appeal for help.

  There was the sound of a running horse and a shout. Breakfast was abandoned. Stubby ran into the side yard and saw Francisco sliding down from the saddle, his hat missing, blood on his face. Pit swore and went to the young rider.

  “They hit us,” Francisco said. “They got about thirty head from the south ferry. We chased ’em. I think we nailed one of ’em.”

  Pit was wiping away the young hand’s blood with his kerchief, still cursing. “Damn it, first blood. Allus starts the big war.”

  There had hitherto been no bloodshed. Forays had been made at night, clashes avoided. Crooked S cattle had been swiftly driven out of reach so that the brand could be altered, and there had been no real proof of the predators.

  Stubby said, “Fat’s in the fire. Now we got to do somethin’.”

  If only Sam were here, he thought. It came down to that; they needed Sam Jones.

  Sam was following the small figure on the mustang, taking a circuitous route by way of the river to avoid an ambush. It was a clear day and he was rested and in no particular hurry. He was interested mainly in the kid.

  He had awakened to find a plate of hot food at his bedside, the kid eating while sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Antonio” was all Mac said.

  From then on it had been a matter of following, as he was doing now. There was no question that the little guy knew every inch of the countryside. Also his head was on straight; he could think and decide in a manner that Sam did not doubt. If there was a war on, Mac was on the side of Stubby Stone and particularly against Pat Duffy. The reason behind all this was what Sam wanted to know. There was no use asking questions, he had long since learned. Best to go along, be ready and hope to find answers.

  Mac had muttered something about “comin’ in around the south forty,” which Sam took to mean Stubby’s property since they were heading for Stubby’s house.

  They were leaving the river through a copse of oak when there was the sound of clanking horns and the light drum of cattle hoofs. The kid’s mustang spun on a two-bit piece and then was running like the morning breeze. Sam followed.

  They came into the open and already Mac was swinging about. His hand went up, and he yelled in his strange, hoarse voice, “Crooked S. Rustlers.”

  Sam unlimbered the Remington .44 and spurred the roan. In no time at all, he saw an estimated two dozen head of cattle being driven in the wrong direction, away from Stubby’s spread.

  There seemed to be four riders. He fired a warning shot over the one at drag. The man ducked and howled. The other three cowhands reined in, grabbing for their guns.

  The kid came in close, too close, too daring, and fired the shotgun. A horse went down; the cattle began to stomp faster in their awkward way.

  Sam sent another shot as near to a rustler’s head as he could come without killing the man. Another of them had one arm already hanging useless, blood on his shirtsleeve, from a previous engagement.

  Two men now came from the other direction. They fired again and again. The rustlers took off at top speed. Sam rode down to where the steers were milling and watched the thieves making tracks toward Bowville. Then he wheeled the roan and began circling, putting away the rifle and drawing his revolver. The two men who had been dogging the herd went into action, turning the lead beef so that they milled, finally changing direction. Sam made his run—the roan was not a cattle animal so he was satisfied to bring up the rear, watching over his shoulder lest the rustlers re-form and attack.

  One of the cowboys came closer and called, “Name of Callahan. I reckon you’re Sam Jones.”

  Sam could now read the Crooked S brand. “Reckon you’re right. Should we take these animals home?”

  “We were waitin’ for the chance,” said the cowboy. He was a homely young man with a wide grin. “Those hombres took too many shots at us. Got Francisco. But we hadn’t quit.”

  “That I can see.” He looked now for the kid on the mustang. There was no sign of him. Sam stayed on the drag as they drove the little grab of beef back to the south forty of the Crooked S. The stock had been run hard and moved slowly without much spirit, a fortunate matter for the business at hand.

  The cowboy said apologetically, “We’re real short-handed. Stubby will be plumb glad to see you.”

  “Glad to be here.” That was very near to an untruth, he admitted to himself. Still, he could not have very well been any place else. Duty and honor ... well, that sort of thing was calling. Now it was a hard fact that blood had been drawn, which signified that a war was imminent.

  He did not bother to ascertain the fate of the rustler who had fallen. He had not been around cattle for some time, but he knew the hard rules. A convenient limb of a tree and a lariat around the neck were the due of a man who stole a steer.

  The cowboy said, “Here comes Stubby, hackin’ like always.”

  Sam reined in. Stubby had never been a graceful horseman, but he clung to his oversized saddle like a burr. His hat over his ears, he galloped up and came to a sliding stop.

  “Sam.”

  “Stubby.” It was bound to be awkward, a meeting like this. They did not attempt to shake hands.

  “Charlie got to you.”

  “Not quite,” said Sam.

  “He went down?”

  “Feller named Tinsley, they say.”

  “A no-good rat.”

  “Charlie was no angel,” Sam reminded him.

  “I know. I know. But he was my no-good.” Stubby shook his head. “Damn nice of you to come. You got my note, then?”

  “I got it.”

  “We got big trouble.”

  “It’ll get worse,” Sam said.

  Stubby nodded, dolorous. “First blood. Look, Sam, let’s go on to the house and palaver some. Mary said you’d be along any minute. She’ll be glad to see you.”

  “Be happy to see her.” Sam could not keep the stiffness out of his tone.

  Stubby turned to his waiting men, who were listening to directions from Pit Pickens. “You all know what to do. Keep your guns loaded.”

  Pickens rode up on an old hardy mule. “Sam, good to see you. Sorry it hadda be like o’ this.”

  Sam was glad to take Pit’s hand. He knew the value of the old man who had remained loyal to Stubby. “You’re lookin’ right pert.”

  “Bit of the rheumatiz, lost a few teeth,” he said. “Still can get around a mite. You ain’t changed much.”

  “Outside don’t count, does it?”

  “Nope. I’ll stick around with the boys. We need more of ’em, as you can see with one eye.”

  “Had enough today.” Sam paused, then asked, “You know anything about a button calls himself Mac? Feisty little shaver about fourteen? Rides a mustang, knows this country more than good?”

  “That’s the little bugger raids the henhouse every so often,” said Stubby. “Then he’ll lay a brace of birds or a pair of rabbits on the doorstep.”

  “Been around a while,” Pickens added.

  “Wasn’t for him I wouldn’t’ve been around when those rustlers came through,” Sam said. “He’s been doggin’ my footsteps. Thought he might be connected to you somehow. He’s no friend of Pat Duffy, I can tell you that.”

  Stubby said, “Just a maverick kid. Mary wanted me to find him and see if we could do somethin’ ... Mary loves kids.” He paused, and then blurted, “She’s goin’ to have one of her own any time now.”

  “Hey, that’s great.” Sam felt a small twinge, then it went away.

  “Well. We lost a couple.”

  “Oh. Hell, that’s real bad.”

  They were riding toward the house. Stubby said, “It w
as awful hard on her.”

  “I’m purely sorry.”

  “Uh, Sam?”

  “Never mind.” He knew what was coming, and it embarrassed him. He put up a hand. “What’s past ain’t worth thinkin’ on. Took me a while to figure that out, but I know it’s damn true.” He did not add that there dwelt in Sunrise a lady named Renee. He wondered if he could feel the same about Stubby were it not for Renee.

  “Everything would be fine and dandy if it wasn’t for that damn Pat Duffy,” said Stubby. “Couple of times I near went gunnin’ for him. He’s a real bastid.”

  “I met the man,” Sam told him.

  “You already did?”

  “Bit of a problem with his gunners. That maverick kid got into it. That’s the strangest kid I ever come across.”

  “He totes a shotgun and, I wouldn’t be surprised, a hidey gun,” said Stubby. “He’s like a ghostie comin’ and goin’ in the night.”

  “He can disappear in the day. Like right now,” Sam said.

  “He sided you?”

  “He sure as hell did.”

  “And it seems like he’s sidin’ me.”

  “Or just his own self.” There was still constraint between them, Sam realized. They did not talk of old times; as would two past partners reunited. It was easier to speak of the kid and of present circumstances. They rode through the countryside and Sam noted changes; everything was richer, more luxuriant in the river basin. It was a fine place to settle down and raise a family and find peace and quiet. It was a downright shame that there had to be a serpent.

  They came within view of the house. Only the foundation had been built when Sam departed. Now he said, “Did yourself proud, there. Strong as a fort.”

  “Comanches,” said Stubby. “They were raidin’. They’re still out there somewhere, they’re always somewhere.”

  “They move on the moon,” said Sam. “Seen any lately?”

  “A few rovin’ bands. They palaver. I give ’em an old cow once in a while.”

  They went in through the kitchen, as was customary for riders. Mary still sat at the table. A black woman was cleaning up. Mary smiled and said calmly, “Well, Sam.”

  “Mary.” She was different. He was shocked at the change in her. She had been a smooth-faced, innocent girl; now she was a woman like any other rancher’s wife.

  She said, “Better light and eat, hadn’t you?”

  Stubby swallowed, then said self-consciously, “Best we should and talk. Got a lot to talk about.”

  “I’m going to have a baby, did Stubby tell you?” Mary was proud, yet there was a note of trepidation in her. She had already lost two; she was not without worriment, Sam thought. Yet she was serene and he thought that the marriage had been a good one for them both.

  Stubby said to the woman, “Matilda, you mind rustlin’ up some grub for us?”

  Matilda said, “Always do, don’t I? Spend my life rustlin’ grub. Be better off rustlin’ cows.”

  “That can get you hangin’ from a tree,” said Stubby.

  It wasn’t funny, Sam thought, as he remembered seeing black people dangling from ropes for less reason than stealing cattle. The woman, however, grinned and busied herself at the stove.

  The time had come to sit down with Mr. and Mrs. Stone and talk. He thought, as always, of Renee and meekly took his place at the long table.

  Pat Duffy sat in the office behind his saloon and gambling joint and listened to Simon prattle on. He was smoking a stogie and caressing a large whiskey with a beer chaser. His head was clear and his choler at the boiling point, but he maintained a calm demeanor until the end.

  Simon said, “The kid showed again. With that damn Sam Jones.”

  Duffy exploded. “I want that kid. How many times have I told you bastids I want that kid?”

  “He totes a shotgun,” whined Simon. “He slips around so you can’t put a finger on him.”

  “I want that kid!” Duffy was apoplectic with rage. “Find me somebody who can bring in that kid!”

  “Everybody’s tried. You’d think a button like that, it’d be easy. Where’d he come from, anyways?”

  “None of your damn business. Just bring that kid to me.” Duffy drained the whiskey and swallowed beer. “I pay good enough to have done what I want done.”

  “I warned all the boys. I told ’em. You want the kid alive. I told ’em like you said.”

  “Get the hell outa my sight and tell ’em some more. About the cattle, we got time. Stubby Stone ain’t a patch on them I’ve done in before, me boy, believe me. This here Sam Jones, he ain’t all that much. Comes down to it, there ain’t never been a man who’s all that much. What I want, I get. Now go.”

  Simon departed in haste. He was a humble man, a go-between, actually a slave, Duffy thought. It was satisfactory to have one of that kind to kick around. It made him feel good. With the others, the fast guns, he had to be a bit more careful.

  He was, he prided himself, not a foolishly reckless man. He used his brains. He got what he wanted and he was like the man who said he didn’t want everything—just what was adjacent to whatever he possessed. He had, he believed, the fey quality of the Irish, a gift that allowed him to always come out on top.

  He had never seen Ireland. His parents had emigrated to Mexico before he was born, had lived there until they were killed by bandits. He had escaped by hiding in a well. He had found a place in the ranks of a guerrilla band under Santos Liberate and had learned to lie and steal and fornicate and always make a profit. He had stolen a gold shipment one night, killed his two companions in crime, and crossed the border in safety without even being suspected.

  Seeking a patina of respectability with the gold as his stake he had married the Widow Murgatroyd, a tiny woman who had wasted away under his abuse. When she died, he had moved to Bowville and bought land and swindled Stubby Stone. It had all been very easy.

  All, that is, except the Widow Murgatroyd. Her damn daughter who had run away just because he had petted her a bit, all in the spirit of fun, of course. And the widow had died hard, cursing him, an Irish curse that might have been daunting to a lesser man.

  That was in the past, he scolded himself, pouring the good whiskey and calling, “Rita, my love, cold beer. And where is my darlin’ Maizie?”

  They came in, hips swaying, dressed in low-cut, short-skirted dresses in bright colors, their hair piled high as he liked it. They were always ready, always listening for his call. They were dance-hall girls by courtesy; they were also his slaves. He had always been one for the ladies. It was a prideful matter to him that he was never without one within call.

  Rita was blond and bovine, plump on all counts, simpering, and bore the cold beer. Maizie was small and dark and sharp-featured with amazing breasts for one her size. Rita departed; Maizie, at a nod from Duffy, remained. She was the closest he had to a confidante, a good listener, a proven tomb of silence. She had pretty legs but knobby knees, which she crossed, sitting on the table within easy reach of his hands. She had been left to her own devices at an early age, and was wise in the ways of men of all kinds. She was aware that Duffy wanted to talk.

  “You heard Simon? Sure and you did. You read a book once, I remember. So did I, a lot of books. A man can get the smarts from readin’ books. The Widow Murgatroyd had books. It was about all she had besides a bit of money, poor thing.”

  “Yes.” Maizie had heard this before when Duffy was into the whiskey.

  “So now there has been bloodshed and, truth to tell, I am not displeased, my gal. It had to come, ya see; the war. When a man starts on a way of doin’ things, he has to know way ahead what might happen. So now we have this trouble and we have men to fight. We may need more men.”

  “Cemetery Jones,” she said.

  “Ah, you know him?”

  “By reputation.”

  “He has that. A reputation. On the contrary, my dear, he is mortal.”

  “Ain’t we all?”

  “Very few of us get outa th
is world alive.” He chuckled. “And none can take it with us.” She knew all the rejoinders to his homilies.

  “Thus we enjoy it while we can.” He patted her knee. “So we stay as long as we can enjoyin’ as much as possible.”

  “Enjoyin’.” She made it sound at least neutral. She enjoyed the laudanum he allowed her, not enough to kill, just enough to get through the days, the weeks, the months. She knew how many whores it had killed; still, she needed something. She was a lot above Rita and the others, she felt.

  He said in an altered tone, “Darlin’, how many know that you’ve got Indian blood in you?”

  She said, “Only you in these parts. You promised.”

  “I keep my promises. But tell me, who’s a gun as fast as that buckaroo Sam Jones?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “So. Now there are Comanches, your people, around.”

  “I’ve heard.” She frowned.

  “You had a friend, a buck. What was his name?”

  She was silent, brooding. Then she dashed away a tear and said in a monotone, “He’s called Soledad.”

  “Ah. Soledad. Would he be around, now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ah, darlin’, don’t tease the old man, now. You’ve seen him.”

  “What good is he to you?”

  “The Comanches need cattle for meat, they need guns. So they don’t think you’re good enough for their fine young chief-to-be. They’ll listen if they can gain somethin’. You see?”

  “I see.” There was no way out. She was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t. Besides, it was an excuse to see Soledad.

  “Tell ’em they got my support. My men’ll warn ’em when it’s time. They can come down on Stubby Stone’s place with us behind ’em.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her mind was working. She had been without the drug for two days. She was not yet entirely dependent upon it; she could still reason. “They could get killed, too.”