Cemetery Jones 2 Page 8

Jackson nodded and went out into the street. Instead of going to the jail, he slipped into the other bar, the one in the hotel. He was weary of it, all the plotting and planning. His guns seemed heavy on his thighs. He untied the holsters, ordered a double whiskey, and relaxed.

  In the quiet town of Sunrise, Renee Hart ran her fingers over the keys of the piano. Marshal Donkey Donovan stood by nursing a beer. The night was pleasant; the customers in El Sol were enjoying themselves.

  Donkey said, “Not to worry, Miss Renee. Sam’s always taken care.”

  “I know.” She smiled at him, but the music did not rise above the note of dolor, music neither Donkey nor any other present could identify but which always pleased them. They did not know Wagner from Beethoven, but they knew Renee’s artistry by instinct.

  “The telegram didn’t say anything bad.”

  “I know,” she replied. She could not explain well that between them she and Sam had an empathy born of their mutual love, something even she did not quite understand and of which Sam had only a confused notion.

  “Mebbe I should take a leave and go down there,” Donkey said.

  She looked up at him. “If Sam is in danger, no one man can help. Sam’s worth a dozen, isn’t he? Your job is here.”

  “It’s real quiet here.”

  “The lull before the storm,” she told him, cascading notes with a heavy left hand. “Just keep hoping the odds are not too great on the Pecos.”

  Donkey nodded. “Yes’m. You’re right. You’re always right, somehow or t’other.”

  She broke into “Buffalo Gals Won’t You Come Out Tonight,” and at the poker table Mayor Wagner sang lustily in a natural fine baritone and others joined in until the rafters rang and the dance-hall girls got up and whirled around in their full dresses. Renee had no wish to convey her inner disturbance to the multitude.

  Stubby Stone sat at the end of the long kitchen table with a mug of coffee and said, “Damn fool thing, Sam goin’ into town alone.”

  Pit Pickens shook his gray head. “You aim to stop Sam when he’s a mind to do somethin’?”

  “He was always sudden. You know, Pit, long as I’ve knowed him, I’ve got no idea where he comes from? Who was his family? He was a loner, always a loner.”

  “He’s seen the elephant. This country, no man’s got to lay out a map of hisself.”

  Stubby mused. “I remember the shootout. There was three of ’em, y’know. Two in front, one in back. They come on fast. Sam had that gun of his’n out before you could say spit. He got the first one in the head. You ain’t supposed to head-shoot, but it took the jasper out, y’see? He gut-shot the second.”

  “And you got numero trey.”

  “I thought I was somewhat fast. Sam had the first one down before I drawed. ”

  “He’s got the hands.”

  “There’s somethin’ different about Sam. I dunno. I dealt him a dirty deal I was so crazy mad about Mary. He never said diddley doo to me or anybody. He just rode out.”

  Pit lit a corncob pipe and blew foul smoke. “Been around a long time, Stubby. Seen a lot. People is critters. One bad thing don’t make a good man rotten. You never crossed nobody since that time. You and Mary are fine together. Sam, he’s another animule.”

  “He say anything to you ’bout what he does in that town, that Sunrise?”

  “On’y that it’s peaceable and that he’s got a stake. Had to ask him. People talk to old men more.”

  “You ain’t never goin’ to be old.” Stubby finished his coffee. “Better make sure Mary’s sleepin’ good.”

  “I’ll be moseyin’ around. Don’t need so much sleep anymore. Got to see the boys is watchin’.”

  “Couldn’t do without you, Pit.”

  Stubby went upstairs. Pickens sat for a moment, thinking of his own life, his dead wife, a boy he hadn’t seen in long years. He thought of his time with Stubby and he thought of Sam Jones. It had been a damn fool thing to drive a wagon into Bowville. But Sam, now, he was a different kind of man. Best to let him do things his own way. And there was that loco, little maverick gal; what of her? Life didn’t get any less interesting with old age, he decided with a grin.

  In the dim reflected light from the lamp in the office of the jail, Sam listened to the soft cadence of Checkers Moseby’s voice. “You would think that a gamblin’ man would be quick with a pistol. Most of us wear a shoulder holster as you well know, suh. But early on I noted that men carrying short guns often got themselves eradicated in some foolishment, most often drunken. It also came to my attention that in the West unarmed men are seldom shot at.”

  “Never thought of it that way,” said Sam. “True.”

  “You give a red-blooded young man a revolver to hang on his hip and a few shots of redeye and somethin’ is bound to explode. Sooner or later.”

  “It happens,” Sam admitted. It had happened to him, much to his annoyance and sometimes to his sorrow.

  “A rifle, now, suh, is a thing of beauty. A rifle is for shootin’ birds and beasts, for food or sport. I must say, I pride myself on my ability with a rifle.”

  “That’s just fine. If we had one.” Sam’s mind was on the maverick kid—the female maverick kid. Long gun, short gun, there was a time and a place for everything. He would be no good to Stubby or Mary or anyone else if one or the other was not provided soon. “Thing is, partner, if we get out of here alive, it’ll be with a six-gun.”

  “Ah! You have me. But, suh, you are not responsible for me, now, are you?”

  “You might not think so. Howsomever, if we do make it, there’s need for a rifleman to go against Mr. Duffy.”

  “You don’t say? Is it the range war of which I have heard some talk?” Checkers asked.

  “It is. Friend of mine owns the Crooked S.”

  “Cattle. Ugh. I am, suh, a city feller. I ride, of course. All south’ners ride. But cows?”

  Sam observed dryly, “Cattle. Longhorns. Different sorta animals. They run a lot. Then you eat ’em, after they’re fattened somewhat.”

  “Of course. My error, Mr. Jones. Sounds somewhat like a skirmish is on its way.”

  “And then some. Can you shoot from the saddle?” Sam asked.

  “I can’t say, suh, never havin’ tried. Could be.”

  “Then you better ride drag with me.”

  “Drag, suh?”

  “Just follow along best you can. If the time comes.” Time had been getting away. There was another man, wearing two guns tied low, in the office with Simon now, a mean-looking, low-browed fellow. Simon was gesturing, posturing. His loud voice came faintly as Sam motioned for silence and listened. He heard: “That damn Ranger ... Sure ... We got Jones’s gun ... You leave it to Duffy …”

  At the high window came a sibilant whistle. Jones crawled up, Checkers giving him a hand. The revolver came through between the narrow-set bars and the familiar voice said, “Gotta run. They’re patrolin’.”

  “Missy Mac, or whoever, you get yourself out to the Crooked S, you hear me?” Sam shot at her. “There’s goin’ to be a whizbang and I want you out of it.”

  “Don’t you call me ‘missy.’ You take care of you.” She was gone.

  “Dammit to hell,” said Sam, coming down to the floor of the cell. The rats ran again, for the twentieth time, chasing each other. “Okay, Mr. Moseby. Just be ready.”

  “Drag, suh. I’m ridin’ drag,” said Checkers coolly.

  “Not right now. You’re havin’ a conniption fit.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Like failin’ down and hollerin’. A screamin’ meemies fit.”

  “Oh!” Moseby howled. He threw himself on the floor and writhed and squirmed and moaned.

  Sam called, as politely as possible, “Marshal, this man needs attention.”

  Simon came around the partition that separated the office from the cell. He peered. Moseby yelped.

  Sam presented his revolver. He said in a low voice, “If you want to live, Mr. Marshal, send your friend th
ere for a doctor.”

  Simon turned fish-belly white, staring into the barrel of the revolver. He said, “Uh, Max, you better get the doc. The man’s goin’ loco here.”

  The man said, “What the hell do you care? The hell with the bastid.”

  For a moment, there was nothing in the air but static. Then Sam grasped Simon by his belt and yanked him up against the cell bars. He called, “You, Max, you want to live?”

  The gunman’s hand shot down. Sam fired past Simon’s ear. The man called Max fell down with his gun half-drawn.

  Sam said, “You see, Marshal, I just about saved your life. He would’ve got you before he got me. So be a nice feller and unlock this cage.”

  Simon gasped. “I don’t ... I can’t …”

  “You don’t want to die right now, do you?” Sam’s voice became very cold. “I just killed one man. I ain’t anxious to add another.”

  Simon said, “Omigod! The keys. My belt.” He was choking and sweating with animal fear.

  Sam said, “Checkers, you got free hands, you do the honors.”

  Moseby was deft, extricating the keys, unlocking the cell door. Sam prodded Simon into the shabby office. There was a single window with a slightly torn shade. “Pull it down, Marshal, we need a bit of privacy,” Sam said.

  Simon obeyed, his hands shaking. His eyes shifted often to the dead man on the floor. Moseby spotted the customary cabinet of rifles on one wall, ran for it, extracted a Remington, and filled his pocket with shells from a convenient pasteboard box.

  Sam said, “Take a look in the desk. There’s a gun of mine around here someplace.” He pushed the revolver against the bulge around Simon’s middle. “You said somethin’ about the Ranger? Like he might be done away with? Maybe with my gun? That wasn’t too smart. Might’ve worked, though.”

  Moseby said, “I expect this is yours.” He handed over Sam’s gun. “And looky here. Money. My stake, no doubt.”

  “No doubt,” Sam said. He addressed himself to Simon, who seemed unable to refrain from looking at the dead man. “Now it seems we got a bit of picklement here. If I walk you out, they might just as well shoot you and then shoot us, that patrol Duffy’s workin’.”

  “They will. They will,” Simon whispered. “It wouldn’t work for you.”

  “So we got to wait here a bit.”

  There could be a lot of bloodshed, Sam thought. What with his two short guns and the gambler’s rifle, it would be a small war. It could not be won, and Duffy would certainly not permit himself to be in range. Duffy paid others to take that risk.

  “I’ll do whatever you say,” Simon pleaded. “But they’ll kill me for sure.”

  “Now that would be a shame,” said Sam. “I got a fast team and a wagon right next door. There’s got to be some way for two men to manage this here whizzer.”

  “I can harness a team,” proffered Moseby.

  “If they’d let you.” Sam shook his head. “You and me, we got responsibilities. Your family back home. My friends ... No, it’s got to be some kinda miracle.”

  “Miracle? Mr. Jones, suh, I purely cannot believe in miracles. Uncommon sense, yessuh.”

  Sam looked at the dead man. “If his clothes fit, I could make a break. But there’s two jaspers out there, Jackson and Magrew, and they got eyes.”

  “I noticed the gentlemen,” said Moseby. “Bad news.”

  “Sometimes a hat.” He picked up the man’s hat. It came down over his ears. He replaced his Stetson. “No, it’s got to be one or t’other. Uncommon sense, like you say. Or a miracle.”

  Outdoors there was an explosion. Sam went to the window, looked carefully through a crack in the shade. People were running.

  The most feared cry of all Western towns rent the sky.

  “Fire!”

  He said, “The hell with how it happened. That’s it!”

  He shoved Simon into the cell and locked it. He came back to the window and watched. They were running toward Duffy’s Place. He said to Checkers, “It’s uncommon sense, I’ll bet my life. And yours, partner.”

  Not a soul took notice as they walked in shadows to the livery stable. With both of them working quickly, it was only a matter of moments before the bays were hitched.

  Sam said, “Came here to do an errand. Might’s well get it over with.”

  He drove around to the rear of the general store. The owner, working over his accounts, saw him, and let him in. Sam said, “Got a list here. We can help. Here’s money for it.”

  The gambler said, “You are a strange man, suh. Real thorough in your way.”

  When they swung back onto the street, they could see Duffy swinging his arms, shouting orders. It did not seem to be much of a fire. There were no red flames dancing against the night sky. There was a crowd, and he saw Duffy’s men keeping it under control, and he could hear the noise.

  He turned the team onto the road for the Crooked S. The mustang came flying past him. He shouted, “You little female devil, you get on to Stubby’s house, you hear me?”

  There was no sign that she heard. She rode the mustang straight ahead into the darkness. Sam swore some.

  Moseby said, “So that’s the ‘uncommon sense.’”

  “You could say that,” Sam told him. “You could also opine that she started the fire.”

  He drove the bays at a spanking pace, although he did not feel there would be pursuit. He still half believed in miracles. Otherwise how come the maverick kid was always around at the exact right time?

  Or was she indeed possessed of uncommon good sense?

  The fire was easily put out. The crowd dwindled. Duffy was blowing hard; no one was listening. Jackson was very quiet, full of whiskey.

  Duffy raved. “Coal oil. Smell the damn stuff. Someone made a pile o’ rubbish and set it on fire.”

  A clerk from the general store ventured, “Somebody stole a can of coal oil when I wasn’t lookin’ earlier this evenin’.”

  “Nobody’s lookin’ anytime, anywhere,” howled Duffy. A boy among those who had flocked, as always, to the fire said, “I saw that kid on the mustang foolin’ around. Damn kid hit me not long ago. Mean bastid.”

  “The kid?” Duffy frothed at the corners of his mouth. “The kid was in town and nobody—Damn my eyes to hell, where was everybody alla time?”

  Jackson, who felt his several strong drinks, observed, “You had ’em watchin’ the jail.”

  “By God, we’ll just go down to the jail and see what happened to Simon,” said Duffy. “He could’ve come to help put out my fire.”

  “Might be he thought he ought to watch the prisoners,” Jackson said.

  “I want to see that goddamn Cemetery Jones in a cell. If he …” Duffy paused. Then he took Jackson to one side. “Supposin’ he got out? Supposin’, everyone agreein’, he set the fire? He could be hanged for that.”

  Jackson said, “You want to run that whizzer, boss, you better have a damn good story for Keen. Nobody’s seen the Ranger.”

  “To hell with the Ranger.” Duffy was beside himself with rage and frustration. “Let’s get down to the jail.” They went to the jail, Jackson, Duffy, and the silent Magrew. They opened the door and stopped in their tracks at the sight of the dead man on the floor.

  “Cemetery Jones,” murmured Jackson. “They sure named him good.”

  “Where the hell is Simon?” demanded Duffy.

  “I’m here,” came a weak voice. “Jones somehow got a gun on us.”

  “Holy jumpin’ Moses on a wheel,” howled Duffy. “He even took the goddamn cardsharp with him.”

  “Does things up brown,” said Jackson.

  “Where’s the damn keys?”

  Simon said mournfully, “They took the keys with ’em.”

  “Real damn thorough,” repeated Jackson.

  “Well, get the blacksmith. Clean up this mess. Bury that damn Max. Keep your mouths shut about all of this,” Duffy said. “Things have come to a pretty pass. It’s time to move, m’boys. Time to get into so
methin’ we know we can win.”

  “Yep,” said Jackson. “Sure is, before we all go the way of poor old Max there.”

  “Get ’em together. You ramrod it, m’boy. And that kid. Put some goddamn tracker on that kid.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.” Jackson frowned, the whiskey in him working. “Would that mean more dinero?”

  “Do the job, and you’ll get more than you can believe, Jackson. More than you can believe.”

  Jackson thought, A bullet in the back? Not if I watch the phony Irishman. Not if Magrew and me watch him. Still, the job was there and it was a big deal. The biggest, he told himself.

  The moon shone on the bluff above the Pecos, a coyote sang his mournful song, and the river ran strong and relentless when Maizie pulled up. Soledad awaited her; still, she made a small camp with her pinto and the pack animal. She was clumsy attending the animals, but she needed time.

  It was strange how abstinence from the drug of the whores altered her feelings. She had never been stupid. She had behaved as she believed she must in order to survive—barely survive. She had believed in Soledad, that somehow he would rescue her as in the tales told among the girls in the casinos. Every whore believed that a man would come along to take her to his ranch and make her pregnant and give her a life to live. The more laudanum they took, she knew, the more they believed it.

  They thought she was lucky, the girls in Duffy’s Place. They thought she was favored by the boss. She had been in El Paso, in Pecos; she had met Soledad while in Pecos and when she had come to Bowville, it was because he had refused to take her away to the tribe. And now what was she?

  A messenger of ill will, bearing arms to her lover so that he could return in glory to Quanah Parker and kill Mexicans and take slaves. In the meantime, he was to help kill Stubby Stone and Cemetery Jones and most likely the lady who was going to have the baby; possibly the killer would not be Soledad himself but one of his braves who would kill anything white-skinned that came within reach.

  Was she a white woman in her heart? Why did she pause before carrying out her mission? She made a small fire, not to heat the food she carried but to frighten away the spirits that were affecting her clear mind, a mind free of laudanum and promises unkept.