Cemetery Jones 2 Read online

  She sat cross-legged in her buckskins, the Smith & Wesson .32 at hand. She was not truly afraid of living things, it was her thoughts that caused her to shiver.

  A husky voice said, “Just put that gun down, Maizie.”

  She was so startled that she dropped the revolver into the little fire. A small figure came up like the ghosts she feared and snatched it away.

  “Waste not, want not,” said the voice. The maverick kid put the gun in the pocket of a dilapidated coat and sank down on the opposite side of the fire, shotgun across the knees. “Let’s you and me talk.”

  “I ... Who the hell are you?”

  “Just Mac. Call me Mac.”

  “You’re the kid Duffy’s after,” Maizie said.

  “You could put that both ways ...”

  “You’re scary, you know that? Just a kid, but you scare people.”

  “That’s part of it. Now, about those guns you’re totin’. Are they for the Comanches?”

  “How the hell do you know—None of your business. ”

  “Oh, I know a heap. I make it my business to know just about all that goes on around Bowville. Nobody pays much attention to a kid.”

  Maizie said, “Some kid.” Her fear was mysteriously fading. She was curious now. “Why does Duffy want you so bad?”

  “That’s my business. Why are you carrying guns to the Indians?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “No. That’s everybody’s business.” The fire flared up. The kid changed position, taking a seat on Maizie’s carelessly thrown saddle. The coat, sagging because of the revolver in the pocket, flared open. Maizie stared, gasped. “Why ... you’re a girl!”

  The kid hastily covered her chest. “So there’s two of us. Look at it this way: Duffy’s after me, but he’s got you.”

  “A girl. Runnin’ around the country …”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re not going to take those guns to the Comanches.”

  “You’re goin’ to stop me.” It was an assertion, not a question.

  The kid swung the shotgun around, aiming it at the pack animal. “I’ll blast it and the guns down into the river before I’ll let you do it. You savvy?”

  “And me with it. I savvy.” Maizie showed no fear. She was staring at the maverick girl. She went on. “I know a couple of things, too. Antonio talks to me and me to him. I see things when my head’s on straight.”

  “You don’t know half of anything, you women from Duffy’s.”

  “I can guess. I’m crazy about a man. You might as well know, the way things are. It’s Soledad.”

  “The Comanche.” The kid nodded. “That’s why the guns.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? Are you altogether loco?” But the fire showed the flush that crept up from her throat to her cheeks.

  “Cemetery Jones,” said Maizie. “And they got him set up.”

  “They have, like hell. I busted him out of their rotten jail,” said the kid. “And I’m stoppin’ those guns from doin’ him or his any harm.”

  “A man,” said Maizie. “One man. Hell of a life, ain’t it? You been runnin’ wild on your own. Now it’s a man. Me, I been wantin’ my man for too long.”

  “Never mind about men,” said the kid. “Right’s right and wrong’s wrong.”

  “Not where the man is, inside you, in your heart.” Maizie shook her head. “You’re just a baby.” Her eyes flickered in the light of the fire as she looked over the kid’s shoulder. Her mouth flew open.

  The kid rolled. A shot clipped a twig as she fled with amazing speed for her mustang.

  A man’s voice said, “Drop the gun. Stop.”

  Maizie’s voice cried, “Run, kid, run for your goddamn life.”

  Mac was on the mustang and galloping, still clinging somehow to the shotgun, leaning low, ducking her head to „ glance back. Maizie was standing between her and an Indian.

  In another moment, she was swinging the horse down toward the river. This time she rode in the direction of the Crooked S ranch.

  Chapter Six

  It was dawn and there was a stir in the bunkhouse. Sam had dreamed again. He always did after a shooting. He had never seen the man Max before. He had left him dead on the floor without a qualm, but dreams came to haunt him, now as before. He was sweating.

  Francisco, his arm in a sling, was laying out various garments. Moseby was sitting on the edge of a bunk, ruefully regarding his tattered suit of black and white checks.

  Francisco was saying, “Feller shouldn’t wear rags like that anyhow, mister. Pick out what you can wear.”

  “That’s real nice of you,” said Moseby. “Is it time to arise?”

  “Day’s a-breakin’.”

  Sam said, “Good mornin’, men.”

  “You was tossin’ like a bull in heat,” said Francisco. “You got a fever or somethin’?”

  “No,” said Sam shortly, trying to shrug off the dream.

  “I’d better get ridin’,” said the cowboy. “We’re damn short-handed. Reckon this dude ain’t here for chousin’ cows.”

  “He don’t even like cows,” said Sam.

  “Don’t blame him. Ornery damn critters.” Francisco, a fair-haired, red-cheeked youngster, grinned, showing a gap in his teeth. “I’ll be moseyin’ along. Pit’ll be after me if I don’t.” He walked, bowlegged, from the bunkhouse.”

  Moseby said, “Fine folks hereabouts.”

  They had all talked the night before. Moseby and his rifle had been welcomed with open arms. They had kept the news from Mary, but they knew Duffy would move soon. There was only the threat of the Rangers to hold him now.

  Sam began to dress. Moseby picked out a pair of Levis that fit him fairly well and a clean blue flannel shirt. He asked, “Could I wash up?”

  “There’s a pump and a trough. They got runnin’ water in the kitchen sink. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Sam sat on the edge of the bunk and pulled on his boots. The pressure was heavy upon him. He thought of Sunrise and Renee; he had never got off the letter to her that he had promised. He thought again of Duffy and that he could have killed the man and ended all of the problems. Nothing was going right, nothing had since he came to the Pecos.

  Pit came to the door and beckoned. Sam joined him in the yard. Pit said, “You got to see somethin’ you won’t believe.”

  He led the way to the stable. In the farthest stall, there was a mustang nibbling at the few grains of oats it had not hitherto consumed. Saddle and blanket were draped over the partition.

  Sam said, “So where’s the damn kid?”

  Pit pointed upward. “Sleepin’ the sleep o’ the just; it figures.”

  Sam climbed the ladder leading to the hayloft. The tiny figure was curled up, shotgun and machete by her side. She snored, coughed, woke up. Her face was not a foot from Sam’s. She started; then for the first time since he had laid eyes on her, she smiled. It was a fleeting, little smile; immediately she was on her feet.

  Sam said, “So. You finally got here.”

  “I slept too damn long.” Her voice was hoarse. “I—I didn’t want to come here. Then I knew I had to.”

  “It’s about time. Get yourself together and come have some grub.”

  She went on. “I was out in the field, but I knew I had to come in and there was the horse. So I waited till everybody was asleep.”

  “Whatever,” said Sam impatiently. “You’re here, now. You’ve got to stay here.”

  She shook the last of sleep away. “I do, huh? Let me tell you, we better get goin’ quick as quick. Maizie, that gal from Duffy’s Place, has toted guns to the Indians.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I followed her. They almost got me ... Never mind, I know where they are. We got to stop ’em.”

  “I’ll say one thing for you, kid. You come straight to the point.” He retreated down the ladder. He should have known, he thought, that things have to get worse before they get better. He watched the kid go to t
he pump and trough. Moseby was in the bunkhouse getting dressed. Pit was waiting at the kitchen door, and Matilda was behind him, arms akimbo, saying, “More vittles. Always more vittles.”

  Pit said, “Well, git to it, woman. Company. Make it plenty eggs and biscuits and ham.”

  Matilda vanished. Moseby came out of the bunkhouse, looked at the maverick kid, and raised his eyebrows.

  Sam said, “It’s the gal. Name of Mac. Don’t ask any more.”

  “Certainly not, suh. Miss.” He bowed. She scarcely glanced at him.

  Sam said, “Into the house. Eat.”

  Moseby went. Sam stayed to watch Mac rinse beneath the pump. She made quick work of it. He said, “You can tell it over breakfast. ”

  She went obediently into the house. Matilda looked her up and down and asked, “How you like your egg, missy?”

  “Now how in the devil did you know she was a girl?” demanded Sam.

  “Any fool could see that,” said Matilda. “You got no eyes? Jest look at her.”

  Pit, lounging against the door, said, “By Gawd, Sam. She’s right. You look at her slanchways you can tell. We been blind as bats.”

  The girl was buttering biscuits and eating them, her eyes cast down.

  Moseby said, “Now that you mention it, yes. I see. A mighty pretty gal, too.”

  The kid gave him a cold stare. “There’s things to be done. Eat and get ready if you’re man enough.”

  “Now don’t you be hard on Mr. Moseby,” Sam said. “He’s a southern gentleman. He shoots a rifle.”

  Pit said, “You related to the Lamars, Mr. Moseby? Said that was your moniker, Lamar V. Right?”

  “A cousin.”

  “Related to Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar?”

  “A great-uncle, I believe.”

  “Why, that man was at San Jacinto with Houston. Led the charge that chased Santa Anna to hell and gone. ’Twas the end of Santa Anna; gave us Texas.”

  “Matter of history,” said Moseby. “No credit to me. One becomes a bit sick of hearing of him and L.Q.C.”

  “L.Q.C.?”

  “Lucius Quintus Cincinnatis Lamar,” said Sam. “From Mississippi. Great conciliator after the war. On the Supreme Court in Washington now, I do believe.”

  Pit said, “Why, man, that’s one of the finest families in the country. You got to be proud.”

  Moseby sighed, shaking his head. “Suh, when one is told that often enough, one runs away. I was heading for California myself. Working my way, sort of.”

  Matilda said, “Eggs is ready. Ham comin’ up. Them Lamars, I heard of ’em. Owned slave ships.”

  “Ah,” said Moseby, brightening. “That’s more like it. Bunch of damn crazy people with maddening Latin names. Poets. Soldiers. Statesmen. Bah!”

  Sam said, “The man means you can get mighty tired of people tellin’ you how to grow up, who you’re supposed to be.”

  The kid chewed, swallowed, then said, “You better eat up and be ready. Those Comanches got guns, I tell you. That Maizie, she’s in love with Soledad. He almost killed me. They want horses. You got horses here. Duffy sent ’em the guns.”

  Sam said, “The kid’s right.”

  “You goin’ to leave here again, Sam?” Pickens asked. “Duffy needs a bit more time. Those damn Comanches could come down and burn and kill or at least steal the horses. Think on it, Pit. First things first.”

  The kid called Mac stopped eating and stared at Sam. “I could’ve killed Duffy last night. When I started the fire.”

  “I could’ve got him, too, kid,” Sam said softly. “Just eat and get ready, and we’ll go.”

  Moseby said, “Not without me, suh.”

  “Okay.”

  Pit hesitated at the door. “You people. All three. You’re here to save our bacon. God bless.”

  He vanished before they could reply. There was nothing to say in any case, Sam thought. A waif, a gambler, and he who owed a debt, they had come together. Also, the job was far from accomplished.

  As they were leaving, Matilda brought sandwiches. She said, “The good Lawd knows I got no love for southerners. But when you go out for my folks, I bless you with all my heart.”

  “Thank you, Matilda,” said Moseby. “Me, I never owned a slave, but my relatives did. Some were in the Klan, but that was durin’ Reconstruction when the Kluxers did some good. Me, I’m a sort of renegade.”

  “You’re in Texas where nobody asks about your past,” Sam told him. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The horses were saddled; the mustang, a black for Moseby, and Junior. Moseby slung his rifle to the saddle and said, “Me huntin’ Indians. Now who in the world would believe it? I can’t.”

  “Believe it,” Sam said. “And watch your head. Injuns ain’t great shots, but they get lucky sometimes.”

  They rode, the mustang slightly in the lead, silent against the possibilities of the near future.

  Sam nudged the roan alongside the mustang. “Kid, why don’t you tell us your real name and what you got against Duffy and all?”

  She shook her head and the stubborn expression he remembered settled in. “No.”

  “You got to, sooner or later.”

  “Later,” she said. “When it’s done.”

  “When what’s done?”

  She stared at him. “When Duffy’s dead.”

  She clapped heels to the mustang and darted ahead. Sam pursed his lips, then shook his head. “That gal. She’s got me wonderin’ in circles.”

  “In Texas they don’t ask questions,” Moseby reminded him.

  “Go to hell,” said Sam. They rode on, down by the river, then up a trail that made them ride single file to the top of the bluff where Maizie had made camp.

  The kid said, “There’s a higher point. They’re in a ravine. We’ll get high gun on ’em.”

  “How many of them?” asked Sam.

  “Not as many as people think,” she replied. “Best leave the horses.”

  They tied up and went afoot, the girl in the lead. Sam turned over in his mind the several ways to handle the deal. They were outnumbered, but if they had surprise and high gun it might work. He knew the language, but making them listen was another matter. They were young braves, and the moon raid was near at hand and they would be touchy.

  Suddenly his eye caught movement ahead and he hissed, “Stop!”

  They crouched down. He motioned to them to remain still and went ahead, prowling, silent as a snake in the grass. The Comanches might have a sentinel. He circled off the narrow trail and crept back. He had the rifle ready to use as a bludgeon. He saw movement and sprang.

  A quiet voice said, “Dammit, Jones, you like to scare me clean to pieces.”

  “Keen.”

  The Ranger crawled into view.

  “How many?” Sam asked.

  “A dozen, and Soledad. And a whore.”

  “I know about the woman. She close with ’em?”

  “Too close. She and Soledad are real damn close. The others, they got their noses up their asses. I been watchin’. Was about to go send a telegram. I ain’t no hero.”

  “There’s three of us.”

  “Makes a difference. You got any ideas?”

  “Nope. Rather look-see first off,” Sam told him.

  “Tell your people not to shoot,” Keen said. “It ain’t strictly business, but I gotta go along with you.”

  “You can go on to town.”

  Keen grinned at him. “Can’t take a joke, huh, Jones?”

  “Lead us up there.”

  Sam went back and brought the others. They walked in silence in the tracks of the Ranger. They came to the edge of the canyon and looked down. There was a small fire and the Comanches were lounging. Sitting apart were Maizie and Soledad. The tension among them was visible even at a distance. Braves talked behind their hands, staring at the man and the woman. The guns and ammunition were neatly stacked. Maizie seemed to be talking a blue streak to Soledad, who listened stone-faced.

  The r
ope corral in which they kept their mangy horses was at the narrow end of the canyon, between the Indians and the entrance below.

  Sam said to Keen, whispering, “You see what I see?”

  “Could be.”

  “Let me palaver. If it don’t work, try what we’re thinkin’.”

  “It’ll be a small war. The kid?”

  “Trust me,” said Sam.

  “Your deal.” The Ranger vanished in the direction of the blind end of the canyon. He was good, Sam thought, damn good. He moved like a ghost and with startling speed.

  Sam found a spot behind some heavy brush, where he could be heard but not seen. He called in Comanche, “Braves! Do not move. You are surrounded.”

  They started to their feet. Sam fired the rifle into the air and repeated, “We do not want to fight. We want to parley.”

  Soledad separated himself from Maizie and stepped forward. “Who are you that speaks our tongue and wants to parley?”

  “Sam Jones.”

  Maizie said, “That is the man I told you about.”

  “I fear no man.” Soledad folded his arms and stood tall.

  One of the braves shouted. Others joined in. Some did not, Sam noted. He said out of the corner of his mouth, “Spread out. Don’t let ’em get to the guns.”

  The pack animal stood at the end of the ravine, nibbling at foliage. In the corral of sagging rope, the horses of the Comanches stood with heads hung, oblivious.

  Sam called, “We do not want you to be afraid. We want to talk to you about raiding the Crooked S.”

  “That is our business.” Soledad was defiant to the core. One of the Indians began crawling toward the stacked rifles. He was small and slim, and he maneuvered so that the bodies of others sheltered him. There was no way to get a clean shot to deter him without killing or wounding another brave.

  Sam said, “It is our business also. The man Duffy will not reward you. In the end you will have to fight him and all his gunmen.”

  “He’s right,” Maizie said.

  Soledad said, “We need horses. Will you give us horses?”

  “They are not mine to give,” Sam told him.