Cemetery Jones 5 Read online

  Then Ike Clanton eyed Luke and Bat. “You and your podners the Earps got somethin’ comin’.”

  Bat said, “Until the day.” Luke showed the cowboys a brash grin.

  Ike said in a soft, dangerous voice, “Maybe we’ll just see about this.”

  For a moment it seemed the cowboys would attack. Then a soft voice drawled, “Why don’t you start something, Clanton?”

  There was silence. Then Ike Clanton, with not quite so much assurance, drew himself up straight. Without looking around at the speaker, whose voice he obviously had recognized without having to see its owner, Ike said, “You, too, Holliday, if you don’t mind your p’s and q’s.”

  Doc Holliday stepped around Behan and Clum to stand beside Bat Masterson.

  After an uncertain moment, the cowboys picked up Curly Bill Brocius and carried him away.

  Luke heard John Clum’s sudden exhalation of pent-up breath.

  Bat said, “Nobody asked you to butt in, Doc.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Holliday, skin and bones, coughed into a white kerchief. “Just happened by.”

  He wandered into the Oriental.

  Luke looked around for the injured miner. “What happened to Lefty? Did they take him to Nellie’s?”

  “Where else?” Mayor Clum said. “Bless the lady. She’s a fighting angel.”

  “Amen,” said Luke. “Well, in view of the fact that none of us got dead this afternoon, I think maybe it’s time for a tetch, gentlemen.”

  They entered the Oriental. As Luke recalled, a visiting journalist had described it thus:

  ... The Oriental is simply gorgeous. The mahogany bar is a marvel of beauty, the gambling room carpeted with Brussels, brilliantly lighted and furnished with reading matter and writing materials for its patrons. Every evening there is the music of a violin and piano, which attracts a crowd, and the scene is a gay one.

  The journalist had not written of the women, nor careless housekeeping, nor the miners spending their wages, nor the violence always near the surface. He probably knew nothing of the Clantons and McLowerys and the thievery and the killings.

  Mayor Clum led the way to a large room set aside for the town’s notables, both local and visiting. It contained a baize-covered poker table and several comfortable overstuffed chairs. A waiter brought drinks.

  Clum said, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I know you gentlemen are close friends of the Earps. I know you realize you’ve just beat up a member of the Clanton-McLowery gang. That puts you in danger.”

  “I guess we’ve been in danger,” said Bat.

  “Yes. But this is a war. Make no mistake. A war between law and order and well-organized thieves and killers. It’s a touchy situation. I’m worried, gentlemen.”

  “We didn’t come down here to fight a war,” said Luke. “Came here to earn a little money.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with that. So did every other son,” said Bat. “Exceptin’ maybe John Ringo. Nobody knows with him.”

  “The money drew your friend Wyatt Earp,” said the mayor. “He cleaned up Abilene and Dodge City, or so they tell it. He has a following. I know he’s your friend and I wish you’d speak with him. He owns a share of this hellhole—it’s in his interests to insure the peace here.”

  Luke said mildly, “And you own a share of it yourself. The Tombstone Epitaph. Why not keep the peace yourself?”

  Clum opened his mouth, closed it. He arose and said, “Still and all, my friends. There’ll be a showdown and there’ll be killings. If you don’t act now, you’ll have the stink in your nostrils.”

  “Hell, they’re killin’ a man a day as it is,” Bat said.

  The mayor shook his head. “I hope you live through it. I hope I live through it.”

  He left the room.

  “Why’s he picking on Wyatt?” Bat asked.

  “He believes Wyatt’s the key. Believes the citizens will rally around a man of action like Wyatt Earp,” Luke observed.

  “Hell, Wyatt’s just a businessman. Figures he’s got to make it for the brothers and their wives and kids, the whole caboodle.”

  “I know. What the hell,” said Luke. “Let’s get out of here. Unless there’s a game, this room makes me nervous. Too damn fancy.”

  “We got a couple hours before our shift. Want to play some cribbage?”

  “Why not?”

  They went into the main game room. They were making for a small table reserved for employees when there was a disturbance at the entry.

  It was Charlie Storms, drunk and loaded for bear. Luke stood bolt still.

  Storms threw off an attendant who tried to stop him. He yelled, “Where’s that lily-livered, cheatin’ little bastid that ganged up on my friend?”

  Bat touched Luke’s shoulder and said, “Let me handle this, old pard.” He was already in motion. He reached Storms before he could make good his attempt to hit the doorman with a haymaker; Bat grabbed his flailing arm. He wheeled Storms outside in a jiffy.

  Luke stood fast for a minute or two. Eyes were turning his way. He felt naked, knowing what was in the minds of many—that Masterson had taken his part, that he should have accepted the challenge of his traducer. This was not Dodge City; few knew that he probably could have buffaloed Storms, ending the incident without bloodshed. Few cared that he would have had an advantage over a drunken fool. None knew that he was averse to gunplay—after all, he was Luke Short, the gambler, friend of the famous.

  Had he survived the great days of Dodge because of the protection of his friends, Earp and Masterson? There would be those who thought so. For one of the few times in his twenty-six years he felt self-conscious.

  Quickly pride took over. He slowly finished his drink. He sauntered the length of the Oriental bar, met every eye that would meet his, and went into the street.

  Bat appeared. “I put him to bed in his room. You know, he’s not a bad sort when he’s sober.”

  “You said that before.”

  “Hey, easy does it. He’s just a drunk tinhorn. You want to go down to La Belle’s and play with the girls?”

  Bat was cheery as always.

  “Not tonight. Maybe I’ll go see how the little Irisher is doin’ at Nellie’s.”

  “That’s no place to have fun. She takes care of every sick cat in town. Makes you feel, I dunno, guilty.”

  Bat walked away with a wave.

  There was a sound. Instinct brought Luke around. There were running footsteps; then Charlie Storms appeared.

  “Gotcha now, you lousy little coward,” he shouted.

  He was within arm’s length. Luke deftly opened his coat with his right hand, reaching to the leather-lined back pocket of his tailored, striped trouser.

  Bat yelled from the end of the block, “Hey, now, none o’ that.”

  Charlie Storms was pulling his holstered gun, still howling curses to the Arizona sky.

  Cool and steady, Luke stepped not away but toward his adversary. The gambler’s hands plucked loose the gun.

  Storms had his weapon in his hand and it was ready to go off. There was no time for decision—no time for thought ... Luke put the muzzle of his snub-nosed .38 against the man’s chest and pulled the trigger five times.

  Five, because Storms had the constitution of an ox and these little .38 slugs did not have much stopping power.

  Storms fell back, down flat.

  Bat said, “Hell. Will you look at that? You put the sumbitch on fire.”

  Storms’s coat was indeed smoldering. Its occupant was dying. Froth bubbled from his lips.

  People came running, among them Virgil Earp with his marshal’s badge.

  Ike Clanton’s voice sounded. “Murder! Take him in, Earp. He’ll hang for this!”

  Bat put a hand on his gun and peered at Ike. “Self-defense. Right, Virgil?”

  “Right.” The duly appointed chief of police came close and said, “But I’ve got to take him in or there’ll be war right here and now.”

  Luke blew the smoke from
his gun barrel and reloaded. “He’s right. I’ll go along.”

  Bat said, “Don’t you put him in with Brocius.”

  “Not a chance,” said Virgil. “I won’t even take his gun before I lock him up.”

  “I’ll have him out by morning,” said Bat.

  “Like you say.”

  The two of them marched either side of Luke. The Clanton faction followed every step of the way. Luke walked with steady step. Inside his heart was beating like a trip-hammer. He had finally been forced to kill. He would, he felt, never again be the same. He now knew how Sam Jones felt, how it must be with Bat and Wyatt. It was not a good feeling. There was no pride in it. That he had been defending his life meant something—but not enough.

  Despite the assurances of Earp and Bat, when the cell door clanged behind him he felt that it was just, that he belonged in custody.

  Bat Masterson patrolled the length of the marshal’s bailiwick with Virgil Earp. Out there they were prowling, Ike and the rest of them.

  “Call themselves cowboys,” said Virgil Earp bitterly. “There ain’t a decent, hardworkin’ cowhand among ’em. Sure, they can do the job when they’re rustlin’. But they make their livin’ off stealin’ and smugglin’ and robbery and plain holdups of miners on payday. They’re a rotten bunch, and Old Man Clanton’s the worst of all.”

  “What’s you and your brothers and Wyatt doin’ about it?” yelled Curly Bill Brocius derisively from his cell.

  “Wyatt and the family can’t do it alone,” said Virgil defensively, with a hard look at Luke and Bat. “We need help. Lots o’ help.”

  “More help than you’ll find in this town,” Curly Bill shouted. Then he laughed.

  Luke was still too shaken to reply.

  At midnight things quieted down. Bat Masterson sat down at Virgil Earp’s desk. He found paper and a pencil and began to write a letter. His handwriting was exceptionally good.

  Dear Sam:

  Your friend Luke is in jail here and I am guarding his carcass. Old Man Clanton’s minions are outside thirsting for blood.

  This town is one Helldorado. You are missing the fun. Am worried about Luke. He killed Charlie Storms and he dislikes the feeling, and we all know Storms’s friends will be on his trail. Including John Ringo.

  It was hot and dry where Pacheco and his little family stopped to stare up at Cochise’s stronghold. The land was barren. He had not been able to find food for two days. He was skin and bones. Anna and the baby still had flesh on them because he had gone without in order to feed his family, but now he was desperate. The horse and wagon had survived the trip but little else. It was hardly possible to scale the heights in hopes of finding people of his tribe.

  He pulled up in the shade of a clump of stunted trees. Below was a wide main road. He said to Anna, “That must be the road to Tucson.” On the east it would lead to Tombstone. Sam Jones had friends in Tombstone.

  She always seemed to know what he was thinking. “We stole from Sam Jones.”

  “They would not know that.”

  “Still. If we could find food and get to the stronghold ...”

  Below, a wagon passed swiftly, going northwest toward Tucson. Pacheco said, “There will be other wagons. I will go down and wait.”

  “That is a good thought.”

  He said, “I will leave you the rifle so they shall not think I mean harm.”

  “But you will carry the pistol.”

  “I will hide it,” he agreed. “I will be ready.”

  He walked down the hill. He had not gone a hundred paces when there was the sound of shots, unmistakable, not rapid firing, spaced, echoing. He dropped flat and craned to see what was happening.

  Now there was the sound of horses running. The stage from Tucson came into view, six horses running at top speed. There were two men on the box. One held the reins, the other a rifle. The rifleman was steadily spacing shots to the rear.

  Several horsemen were pursuing the stagecoach. Pacheco could not count them because they maneuvered in zigzag fashion to give the rifleman difficult targets. The riders were gaining on the stage, in which case, Pacheco realized, they could down one of the running stage horses and end the conflict. He began to crawl toward the road, caught up in an excitement he had not before known. His revolver was of no use in this instance, but he could not resist going forward.

  Then Anna was there. She handed him the rifle they had brought from the Jones ranch. She did not speak; she threw herself down and lay still. Automatically he gave her the pistol.

  Now he could see that the pursuers were masked. There were five of them. There could be only one conclusion to the affray, he thought. Outlaws, bad people, would triumph.

  He knew the attackers were whites. Indians, who never wore bandanna masks, would be painted for war.

  He took a deep breath, knelt and aimed the rifle at a rider. He gulped as a horse went down, fired again. A man howled and flew from his saddle. The man on the box of the coach was reloading, looking at the spot where Pacheco knelt. When he was ready, he turned and shot another of the marauders.

  Now there was confusion. The unhurt riders milled about, shouted to one another. One turned and rode off southward. In another minute all were fleeing. The stage driver, tapped on the shoulder by the rifleman, eased up on the reins and applied the brakes. The stage wobbled to a halt, wheel brakes screeching.

  Pacheco and Anna stood up, outlined against the sloping landscape. The rifleman beckoned.

  Pacheco said, “Food. We will have food for the baby. You go back to him.”

  Anna obeyed, saying, “You were extraordinary, my love. Food. Yes, food.”

  The man from the stage was tall and lean. A heavy, tawny mustache drooped past the corners of his lips. His jaw was square, his eyes deep-set. He wore well-fitting town clothing and an ammunition belt that he handed to the sweating, pale driver. His eyes, hot from the battle, cooled as he surveyed Pacheco.

  “First time my bacon was saved by an Indian.” He looked closer. “Apache?”

  “Pacheco. I am grandson of Cochise.” He said it proudly, even as his empty stomach growled. “We need food.”

  “Good reason to butt in,” said the man. “I’m Wyatt Earp.”

  Pacheco knew the name. He said, “We are friends of Sam Jones.”

  “Cemetery Jones?” Now there was wonderment in Earp.

  “He does not like to be called that.”

  “You know him.” Earp nodded. “You’ll have food. Is that a girl I see?”

  “And my baby. We could earn the food.”

  “You can stop worryin’ about that,” said Earp.

  The passengers were tumbling from the stage. There were two women and three men, all well attired, all frightened. A stout man said, “What happened, Wyatt? I thought we were done for.”

  Earp said, “We got lucky. This young Apache gave me the extra gun we needed.”

  “Who in the world would attack us? All those men to share the few dollars we carry on a trip?”

  Earp said, “Just for a guess I’d say it was the passengers they wanted. Maybe for ransom. They’d be Old Man Clanton’s men. He’s the brains of that crew, if brains is what you call it.” Earp turned. “I’ll take a look-see. Young feller—Pacheco, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “You bring your lady and the baby down here and put ’em in the coach. I see you’ve got a wagon.”

  “It is Sam Jones’s wagon.”

  “We’ll need it to bring the bodies in,” said Earp. He had a brisk, commanding manner. “The rest of you go on to town. We’ll be along.” He said to Pacheco, “Lady name of Nellie Cashman’ll see to you.”

  And so Pacheco and his girl and baby came to Tombstone.

  It was John Ringo, the strange and deadly one, who said of Old Man Clanton that he combed his hair with a rake. “The old goat’s all hair and talk. Must have been a preacher at one time or another. He fixes them with those eyes, and when he says jump they ask how high.”
/>   John Ringo was a strange one. He read books that none of the others understood—nor did they care. He was without conscience, he drank whiskey as if it was going out of style, and men feared his violent outbursts. Even Old Man Clanton listened to him.

  Now the old man’s hoarse, piercing voice was screaming, “Apaches, you tell me? Must it always be Apaches, the damn devils? You had Earp and some damn Apaches stopped you? Gawd in heaven.”

  The others were properly abashed, but Ringo said, “Don’t call on a stranger when neighbors are nigh.”

  “Cochise killed my best son,” the high, whining voice went on. “It’s the gov’ment’s fault. The army ain’t got the guts to wipe ’em out. Injuns and the gawdamn Earps and all. Charlie Storms was my best card man and gets his self kilt by a dude. Bill Brocius gets drunk and chucked into jail. What’s the world comin’ to?”

  His son Phineas, known as “Phin,” whined, “It was bad luck, Pa.”

  Ringo always expected mice to crawl out of the mottled beard, which extended to the old man’s belt line. Rats, he amended; Clanton attracted them like the Pied Piper, used them, profited by them.

  Clanton thundered, “You make your own luck in this here world. And you ain’t up to it.”

  Ringo said, “You weren’t too smart yourself this time.”

  The others froze, waiting for another outburst. Old Man Clanton opened his mouth; his whiskers quivered as if in a sudden breeze.

  Ringo was slat-lean, with the battered handle of a six-shooter hanging at his side like an afterthought. Take one look at him and he didn’t look particularly tough. Take a second look and a chill went down most men’s spines. Ringo went on, “If you’d kidnapped those people and word got to Governor Fremont, he might have sent troops down here, all right. From the way the boys tell it, there were businessmen on that coach. Listen, old man, it’s not wise to mess with the big money people like you do with Mexicans and these others.”