Cemetery Jones 2 Page 6

  “Oh, yes. The horses.” Comanches were nothing without good horses. They were Plains Indians, nomads, cavalry fighters.

  “You will raid the Crooked S?” she asked.

  “Not without more guns to go with the bullets. They watch at the Crooked S because of Duffy. Duffy must also provide us with guns.”

  She pulled away from him, her mouth hard. “So I must go back to Duffy and ask for guns.”

  “There are reasons why I cannot do what I wish.”

  “You will send me back to Duffy?”

  “I do not want you to go back.” He shook his head.

  “You are the son of a chief. I am a woman, no longer a girl. Yet I am to get the bullets and the guns for you to steal horses and leave me.”

  “What can I say? My people are against you. Even the young braves, my own men laugh behind my back. And my father sent a message.”

  “Your father, the great chief,” she said bitterly.

  “It is time for the moon raid.”

  “Oh, yes. Time to raid into Mexico to steal horses and bring back slaves. And Mexican women.”

  “It is our way.” He drew himself up. She had seen him like this before, withdrawn, stubborn.

  “The mighty son of a great chief. Faithful to his tribe, unfaithful to his lover.” The anger rose in her. “Raid into Mexico against people who cannot fight back. Like my father, Ramon Santos, who was brave enough to take one of your squaws and was killed by your people in the end.”

  “My people have suffered. The white-eyes have driven us here and there ...”

  “You have no brains to make peace, to settle down. You love me, you say. You do nothing for me. You want guns? Take them from Duffy. I’ll not bring them to you.” She got to her feet. He stood tall, staring at her. Words would not come to him.

  She turned and ran. For a moment, it seemed he would follow. Then he folded his arms and stood, watching her go.

  She ran all the way to the pinto pony, tears streaming. They were not the tears of a lovelorn girl, but tears of anger and frustration. She thought of Quanah Parker, leader of all Comanches and sometimes the Kiowa, their rival tribe, whose mother, Cynthia Ann, was a white woman captured by Comanches in 1836. Cynthia Ann had borne children to her chieftain husband and lived happily until “rescued” by the whites, and now, it was said, pined for her husband.

  Quanah Parker was half white but accepted because his father had been an Indian. Had her father been a Comanche ... She calmed herself. She was helpless. She thought of the solace of laudanum, the life in Duffy’s Place where there were bright lights and laughter. Perhaps that was all there was in store for her. Soledad was lost, bound by tradition.

  Maizie came to the cliff where she had left the pony. She realized that she was hungry. She had not shared the food with Soledad. She rode the pinto down a circuitous path to the river. She sat in the shade of an oak tree and munched. Her mind was clear. She had to decide whether to ask Duffy for the guns or to forget Soledad. She was accustomed to failure. Her life had been for nothing. She finished eating and stared at the river.

  At last she got up as if mesmerized by the flowing water. She slowly divested herself of her clothing. She dove into the river and swam.

  It would be easy to stop swimming and drift and let it all go, the miserable past, the black future.

  She was at midstream when she heard his cry, and then she saw Soledad swimming toward her. She turned on her back and floated.

  Bedraggled, clothing wrinkled and shrunken in parts, Sam and Pickens arrived at the ranch house barely before noon. As they changed in the bunkhouse, the old man said, “Been meanin’ to go into town for supplies. Reckon I best do it today.”

  “I’ll go,” said Sam. “I got a notion or two to consider in Bowville.”

  “Stubby’s so scared somethin’ will go wrong with Mary, he won’t leave. ”

  “Can’t blame him.” Sam pulled on his city clothing, thinking that he had better buy work garments for his stay on the Pecos, which might stretch longer than he had intended. He also had to learn what there was to know about the kid—the girl—who was running around loose, in daily danger. As for the range war, that was a matter of planning and acting in the right manner at the right time.

  Above it all, he knew he had to inform Renee of what was going on. He sat on the edge of the bunk and oiled his revolver, taking great care.

  Pickens said, “You’re frettin’ on that gal, ain’t you?”

  “Probably. How about you?”

  “Sartain. Purely crazy, runnin’ wild, playin’ like a boy.”

  “And Duffy after her. Why?”

  “She didn’t say. Don’t hardly have to wonder. Duffy’s hell on women.”

  Sam added oil to the outer side of his gun belt and stretched it, working it in his hands. “There’s got to be something we could do. Bring in the Rangers.”

  “You reckon? Maybe if you see the man ... Keen, you said?”

  “Maybe. What about the eatery fellow? Antonio.”

  “Good man in a tight spot. He’s a friend of Stubby’s,” Pickens said.

  “Uh-huh. I know.” Sam frowned. “Just who is the local law in Bowville?”

  “Ain’t none since Howlin’ Howley left a week or so ago. Some said he was paid off by Duffy.”

  “Howley from Dodge City? He got run out of there, years ago.”

  “He runs a lot,” Pickens said. “Drunk too often for Duffy, they say. Forgot to take orders.”

  “Hard man, Duffy.”

  There was a horse and buggy in the yard when Sam went to the house. Indoors, Stubby walked the floor. Sam sat down and watched him, feeling as helpless as a hog on ice. It seemed a long while before a young, bearded man dressed in funereal black came downstairs. Stubby mumbled, “Dr. Conover ... Sam Jones.”

  The young man said, “You must stop worrying, Mr. Stubbs. It is not helping your wife.”

  “Never mind me. How the hell is she?” demanded Stubby.

  “The same.” The young doctor appealed to Sam. “Can you make him understand that it is in the hands of nature? That Mrs. Stone is in no danger? That if she follows my directions and maintains rest and serenity, her chances of bearing a healthy child are good?”

  Sam said, “Haven’t had any experience in the matter. But if you say so, reckon Stubby better pay heed.”

  “She lost two, I told you. Dammit, one more and she’ll pine away to nothin’,” cried Stubby. “How can I not worry?”

  “Just try not to show it.” The doctor lowered his voice. “Tell her I have every reason to believe she’ll be fine if she remains quiet, tranquil.”

  Sam said, “Sounds reasonable, Stubby. Put on an act. You were good at that some time back, remember?”

  “You shut your mouth,” said Stubby. He swallowed hard, then managed a weak grin. “See what you mean, Doc. You be back next week, you hear?”

  “Of course. Please to meet you, Mr. Jones.” Dr. Conover departed, stepping briskly like a man sure of himself.

  Stubby said, “New boy. Old doc, he up and died. Mary misses him.”

  “This one can’t do any worse,” said Sam. “Seems like he knows what he’s up to.”

  “Comes from some school back East. Harvard. Boston. He talks funny, you notice?”

  “Talk don’t do it. Now sit down, I got something to tell you.” Sam proceeded to relate what had happened that morning.

  Stubby’s eyes were wide. “That kid’s a gal? That ornery young maverick?”

  “You can ask Pit. Damn good-lookin’, too, when you consider everything.”

  “It don’t make a lick o’ sense.” Stubby shook his head.

  Then he asked, “Would you come upstairs and help me pretend?”

  They went to Mary’s room. She was sitting up, a smile on her face. She said, “He’s nice, Dr. Conover. He says he’s pretty sure it’ll be a boy.”

  “How in tarnation—” Stubby brought himself up short. “Yep, he’s a whole lot smarter than
old Doc Steever. He says you’re goin’ to be fine, and I believe him.”

  “That’s right,” Sam said. “You want a boy, Mary?”

  “I just want a baby, Sam,” she said quietly.

  She had put it all in that short sentence, he realized. It was new to him, but he could feel it in his heart. Never in his life had he felt the need of offspring, nor had he known anyone who did so. Now he absorbed it, wondering not for the first time, how he could have lived so long and known so little about so many things. He said, “By the Lord Harry, you’re goin’ to make it, Mary. I’d bet my life on it.”

  As he went down the stairs soon after, it occurred to him that he might well be forced to bet his life on it.

  Pickens had a pair of spanking bays hitched to a light wagon. He handed over a grimy piece of paper. “Can you read it?”

  Sam said, “Just about.”

  “Better you shouldn’t go huntin’ that maverick kid. I know you. Best you should do what you got to do and get the hell back here where you might be needed.”

  “It’ll be okay.” Sam went into the bunkhouse and got his rifle and extra ammunition. It was not really good sense to be driving a team through Duffy country, or even into Bowville whence he might be forced to make a fast exit. As to the girl in boy’s clothing, the record showed that he needn’t hunt for her. She always seemed to appear in the vicinity.

  He put the rifle on the seat, considered for a moment, then went back to his saddlebag and took out the twin of his Colt .44 and slid it beneath the blanket that served as a cushion on the seat of the wagon.

  “Don’t miss a bet, huh, Sam?” Pit Pickens grinned.

  “Try not to.” Sam went to the heads of the team and spoke to them, rubbing their noses. They were spirited, he saw, and built for speed.

  Pickens said, “Harness-broke ’em myself. They’ll do.”

  “Seems so. I’ll be seein’ you.” Sam climbed into the wagon, picked up the reins, and clucked the team into action. They were well-gaited and willing. He drove toward town, turning over in his mind all that had happened since his arrival on the Pecos, the rifle beneath his knee, his eyes ever scanning the countryside.

  At the Crooked S they were putting up a brave front, he knew. The odds against them were simply tremendous if Duffy made a strong move, if the Ranger did not interfere, if help could not be brought in. Probably Mary was acting much braver than she would let them know. No matter how he figured it, there was tragedy ahead.

  He could kill Duffy.

  That was something that still needed a lot of cogitation. Was it the right thing to do? The death of a rascal with no redeeming virtues that he could ascertain, was it correct to accomplish the deed?

  He drove down the road through the land owned by Duffy. There was no sign of life, but once or twice he thought he was being observed. Would Duffy have him killed in cold blood?

  There was no doubt about it. Duffy would do so in a minute if he could get away with it. Possibly only the presence of Ranger Keen prevented him from taking the chance. Didn’t that give Sam Jones the right to challenge Duffy? He brooded as the bay team trotted along the road to Bowville.

  And then there was the maverick kid. That was entirely beyond his experience. It was beyond reason, a girl roaming around alone, living off the land equipped with only a double-barreled shotgun and a mustang and a hell of a lot of nerve. Something had to be done—something like Pit Pickens’s notion of Stubby taking her in.

  A horseman came out of a copse of pine. Sam’s-rifle came to hand; he reined in.

  Ranger Keen called, “You’re mighty quick with that, Jones. I got complaints about you.”

  Sam pulled up the team, and Keen draped a leg over the horn of his saddle, grinning.

  “Duffy cryin’ on your shoulder?”

  “Yep. Said you attacked his innocent cowboys.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Said a lot of things. They got a new marshal in town. Name of Simon.”

  “Well, now. That’s a fearsome feller, that Simon.”

  Keen said, “Got a couple mean deputies, though.”

  “It figures.”

  “Tell me, you heard anything about Comanches around here?”

  “Nary a word,” said Sam.

  “I got a telegram from headquarters. Brave called Soledad and some young ’uns. Comanches make everybody restless, even headquarters. I got to go and see.”

  “I’m the supply man,” said Sam. “And the handyman. Just mindin’ my business.”

  “And that of the Crooked S,” said Keen. “It’s a tight spot, Jones. I’ll do what I can. Duffy cuts no ice with me.”

  “I appreciate it. So does Stubby.”

  “You’re right to keep that rifle handy. I’ll be doin’ what I can. If I find the Comanches, I’ll let you know. They’ll be lookin’ for horses at the least.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said. “I’ll pass the word.”

  Keen turned and rode into the trees. Sam continued on the road. Now it was Indians, no less. The sun seemed unwilling to shine on the righteous these days, he mused.

  He made it to Bowville without further incident. From the moment he entered the precincts of the town, he noted a change in atmosphere. It was as if a pall had been cast over all that moved. People walked in the late afternoon with quick steps, going about their business while looking over their shoulders. There were few kids on the street, only the tough boys who seemed subdued themselves. Even the dogs were wary.

  Sam pulled up at the telegraph office. The clerk eyed him with unease. He considered a moment, then decided the less said the better. His message to Renee was: “Arrived okay. Letter follows.” He hated to write, but he thought it safer and the hotel would have stationery.

  He decided to put up the team and drove to the livery stable. The hostler looked at him with surprise, asking, “Ain’t you from the Crooked S?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well ... all right. I’ll take care of ’em.”

  “Any reason why not?” Sam asked.

  “Just that things are ... different lately.”

  “I see. Keep ’em handy for hitchin’, you hear?”

  “That’s what I mean. Things are ... different.”

  “I heard you the first time.” Sam paid in advance and walked back from the edge of town toward Antonio’s eatery. He remembered that he had left his spare gun on the seat of the wagon, then decided to take a chance on that. He continued on through the town, meeting people who, unlike normal Texans, evaded his glance. Although it was nearly suppertime, the restaurant was empty of customers. The stout owner came out slowly from the kitchen. His face lit up.

  “Hey, it’s sure good to see you, Sam Jones. This place is a damn morgue unless Duffy gives his okay. There’s all hell to pay around here.”

  “I noticed,” Sam said: “Got yourself a new lawman and all that.”

  “Uh-huh. The sumbitch.” Antonio produced a flat bottle from under his apron. “You look like a man needs a drink.” He poured generously into two tumblers on the table at the window. Sam put his hat on the floor and sat down.

  “I hear Duffy’s bringin’ in more ranch hands,” Antonio went on. “Gunners, you can bet. The Ranger ain’t been around. You think Duffy might be goin’ too damn far?”

  “Depends,” said Sam. “Feller like him, he makes a move, grabs what he can, then puts the blame on other people. Then he’s got it and it’s hard to take it away from him.”

  Across the street, the doors of Duffy’s Place swung open. A man in a checkered suit and derby hat came flying out, rolled down steps and into the street. Simon and the two guns, Jackson and Magrew, followed leisurely, picked up the victim, and shook him. Playing cards and a few coins scattered. The three then converged and took their prisoner away.

  Antonio said, “Gamblin’ man named Checkers Moseby. He’s been winnin’ pretty good this week. Seems honest enough, but you know Duffy.”

  “I don’t know as much about Duffy as I’d like to kn
ow. Seems you do come by a heap of information somehow or other.”

  “Funny thing. Maizie, that dark gal, one of Duffy’s two favorite whores, she gets high on laudanum and yammers to me sometimes. You saw her when you were here last. It’s like she trusts me.”

  “You’re a trustworthy man,” said Sam. “She tell you anything important?”

  “Sometimes she goes on about her Injun friend. Sometimes she says how she wants to get outa here. She sure hates Duffy.”

  “Interestin’,” said Sam. “You still got food?”

  “Sure, I got plenty. Duffy, he comes in here because I got good food. But nobody else but him and his.”

  “How long can you stay in business thataway?”

  “Until Duffy takes me over. Like he’s takin’ over the whole town.”

  Sam said, “If you can spare me another shot of that good stuff and bring me what I had before, I’ll ponder on it.”

  “You got enough trouble with the Crooked S,” Antonio told him. He poured the drink and then went back to the kitchen. Now he seemed to be doing the cooking himself. That was Duffy again, influencing the life of an honest, hard-working citizen.

  Maizie was the dark whore he remembered from his first encounter with Duffy. Another woman in the case; his life was becoming complicated with them. It wasn’t particularly different at that, he admitted. Mainly he had been a man of the towns with no desire for hunting or fishing or lonely treks into the wilderness. He drank the whiskey and relaxed. It had been a long day.

  Antonio came with the food at last. Sam ate, watching Duffy’s Place while the restaurant man prattled nervously on and on. “I’d close up and go on out with you and join Stubby, but they’re watchin’ me close. Watchin’ everybody.”

  Men went in and out of Duffy’s Place. Evidently it was the only joint in town, now, and Texans would have their gambling, whiskey, and women. Sam finished the meal.

  “Good grub,” he told Antonio. “And now look, we got company.”

  Simon slid into the restaurant, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. He said in his loud, arrogant voice, “Sam Jones, you’re under arrest.”

  From behind Antonio, the gunner added, “I wouldn’t try anything, Jones.”