Cemetery Jones 5

by William R. Cox

  “Only the Lord, and he won’t tell,” said Shaky from behind the bar. “But we ain’t outta the woods yet. There’s Rafferty’s bar and the Messican joint and the new one which we don’t know anything good about. And the miners are comin’ since the Long John showed the new vein, and we’ll be a county pretty soon ... and will it be us or Dunstan gets the county seat and whatnot else.”

  “Shaky’s been goin’ to the church and gettin’ all kinds of ideas from Preacher Lomax,” said the mayor. “Fact is, he’s right. Maybe the west ain’t as wild as your friend Ned Buntline writes about, but there’s a lot to be done.” Mayor Wagner looked at his watch. “Farmer Boone, that damn Yankee, is bringin’ in a load of hay. See you this evenin’, gents.”

  Sam watched the mayor hurry on his way. He said to Shaky, “A good man. Continuin’ the ‘if’ game—if we didn’t have men like him to start with we’d be no place.”

  Shaky’s relief man came on. The old barkeep came around and poured himself a shot. His hands did not tremble when there was a task to do, Sam had long ago noted.

  “Sam, afore that kickin’ hoss throwed me and I got the shakes I was a lot like you. Itchy. Towns tired me. Had to keep movin’. I’m in my forties, and now I’m an old man in this country. But I’m satisfied. We just about spoke the history of Sunrise just now. It’s a fine place. Only for you, what’s there to do?”

  “I ain’t interested in cows. Horses. Sheep. Vegetables. High gamblin’. And I’m barely thirty.”

  “So you’re lyin’ a year or so.” Shaky grinned. “One thing I didn’t mention. There’a fine lady upstairs. It ain’t too late to get married and have a kid or two.”

  Sam darkened. “And bring in a kid whose old man is called ‘Cemetery Jones’?”

  “You make too much of that,” Shaky told him. “I know it’s been costly. I know you’d rather not wear your gun. But hell, Sam, you’re here. The Lord must have an eye on you; He may have got some plan for you. And Renee.” He finished his drink and departed.

  Sam lingered. If there was a plan, he thought, Renee was certainly part of it, although marriage had never been discussed between them. She, too, had a past, and once a door had almost been opened, just a crack. Neither of them ever pursued the events that had happened to them before they came their separate ways into Sunrise. He had no wish to do so now. He went upstairs to her rooms. He tapped on the door and her soft voice bade him enter.

  Her long legs were encased in a variation of vaquero fashion, slightly flared at the ankles. She wore black walking boots. Her shirt was made to order and did no harm to the shape of her body. Her long hair was wrought into braids; she wore no powder. She said, “I like your friend, but I’m anxious to get back to the ranch.”

  He kissed her as lovers do, lightly on the cheek. “Ray’s been takin’ care of your posies. Or is it the runnin’ water that you miss so much?”

  “Both. Did you feed Dog?”

  “If I didn’t he’d eat my leg. You ready?”

  “Hand me my jacket and we’ll go.”

  They made their leisurely way to the livery stable, pausing to chat, watching Dog chase a cat, looking in at the general store. They climbed into the buckboard and drove the few miles to Sam’s place.

  Raymond Wesley, scarcely out of his teens, was an orphan, lanky, gray-eyed, deceptively muscular. He greeted them and said, “I better get out to the field. Cow wandered off this mornin’. Dang Molly, she knows she’s got to be milked.”

  “Go get her, cowboy,” Sam said. “Everything all right?”

  “Smooth as silk.” The youth saluted and departed.

  Renee said, “He does keep things in order. Still ...” She surprised herself at her housewifely instincts, finding dust in corners, cobwebs on the ceiling, spots in the kitchen. Sam watched her with amusement.

  He asked, “Want to take a look-see outdoors?”

  “We should, shouldn’t we?”

  They saddled a pair of the horses in the stable, those that most needed the exercise.

  Sam’s property could not, by the standards of the west, be called a “ranch.” It comprised a couple of hundred acres bound on the north by foothills rising to tall mountains, on the west by a fall of shale, on the east by the town, and on the south by a stand of trees and heavy undergrowth. The creek came down from the north, chortling and icy. There was a small herd of cattle, longhorns mixing nicely into beef with the addition of Herefords. It was known merely as Sam’s Place.

  His enemies, not within earshot, referred to it as The Cemetery.

  The horses did their brief parabolas to prove reluctance at standing in stalls and settled down to an easy pace, following the natural boundaries. As they came southward, the trail of the missing milk cow and that of Raymond following were plain, but there was no sight of either.

  Sam said, “Better follow on. If she gets stuck in the furze out yonder it’ll be a mess.”

  At the edge of the heavy growth Sam put up a hand. They reined. There was no sound of birds or small animals. He motioned for Renee to dismount. As he followed suit there was a small human cry between a grunt and a groan. Sam went toward it, cautioning Renee to stay behind, his Colt in hand.

  Raymond was on his knees, hatless, one hand rubbing his head.

  Sam said, “Easy does it, boy.”

  Now Renee came and knelt beside the youth. There was a lump on his skull.

  He said, “Jumped outta that tree. Caught me a good one. Who’d wanta steal ole Molly? Who’d want a cow?”

  “Prob’ly wanted your horse. Stay here. I’ll take a look.”

  Renee said, “Be careful, Sam. You could be ambushed.”

  He nodded, already noticing that the tracks leading into the woods were of both horse and cow.

  He had not always been a man of the towns. His time with the Apaches had taught him tricks not all white men knew and fewer could manage. He followed the plain trail carefully, eyes and ears attuned to any untoward sign or sound.

  He came through heavy growth into the forest. The tracks were easy to read. He now darted from tree to tree, pausing to listen. There was still no wildlife sound, which meant that humans were somewhere close.

  And then he heard voices. He dropped flat, gun ready. He crawled, hat in one hand, gun in the other, writhing through tall wild green growth. He found a bush and knew it was at the edge of a natural clearing in the forest. He gained the bush, stopped and peered.

  Raymond’s horse was nibbling at the low hanging leaves of a tree. A scrawny, dilapidated cayuse vied with him. Molly the cow was in the middle of the scene. A travois leaned against another tree. A girl sat cross-legged nearby. In her arms was a swaddled infant.

  The girl was at least half-white. She was not pretty, but her big eyes shone like black diamonds. She wore clothes that were scarcely more than rags.

  She said, “But you got to know how to milk a cow.”

  There was an Indian youth kneeling haplessly beside Molly, a battered bucket at hand. He was pulling at the teats of the cow. No milk was forthcoming.

  Sam waited, amused. The young Indian was Apache, he recognized, rather tall for that breed, muscular, dark. He, too, wore ragged pants, shirt, moccasins.

  He said in the Apache language, “I am the son of a warrior. They do not—”

  She interrupted. “Your father is dead. You were sent to the school just as I was, and the others. We are lost, and my baby must have milk and I cannot give any.”

  The youth bowed his head and returned to his task, dogged but certain of defeat.

  Sam had heard enough. He donned his Stetson, kept the revolver in his hand, stepped into the open, and said, “Just take it nice and easy and we’ll get milk for the baby.”

  The youth whirled, crouching. The girl sat up very straight, hesitated, then threw a small revolver from her, saying, “We surrender. Just the milk, please.”

  Sam said to the youth, “Over by the horses. I’m going to fire a shot. Someone will come to milk the cow.”
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  The girl exclaimed, “You speak our language!”

  Sam fired into the sky. The explosion echoed back from the forest. “You from the Christian Brothers School up north?”

  “Long time ago,” said the Apache youth.

  “You ran away months ago,” Sam divined. “When she knew she was going to have the baby.”

  “You know too much.” He was sullen, now.

  The girl said, “If I can only have the milk ...”

  “You’ll have it,” Sam told her. He could hear Raymond coming through the brush. “Only thing is, the man you hit upside the head is the one who does the milkin’.”

  “I will fight him fairly!”

  “Not necessary,” Sam told him. “You got a name?”

  The Apache drew himself up to full height. “I am Pacheco, grandson of the great Cochise.”

  “Well, now,” said Sam. “Knew your grandpa a little. My name’s Sam Jones.”

  The young man stared at him. “Sam Jones?” He took a step forward, staring. “I know you!”

  “You were a brat underfoot in my time. Now, you see, if you had come to my place and asked, everything would’ve been different.”

  Raymond’s voice cut in. “Sam. You okay?”

  “Just fine. Come on in.”

  Renee was a step behind Raymond as they came into view. She stood a moment, taking in the scene. Then she cried, “A baby!” and ran to the girl.

  Sam said to Raymond, “Milk. The kid needs milk.”

  “Why—uh, sure. Babies always need ...” He stopped and stared at the Indian. “He the one that conked me?”

  “Talk about that later,” Sam said.

  Renee said, “We can talk at the house. The baby should have warm milk. And these children should have clothing. For goodness sake, Sam. Bring the animals. I’ll carry the baby. The mother can ride. Come, now, hustle.”

  “Reckon you’re in charge,” said Sam. “Move, children. When Miss Renee says, you do whatever.”

  They obeyed. The cavalcade was formed, made its way out of the woods and across the gramma grass. Sam brought up the rear. It wasn’t always dull in and around Sunrise, he thought.

  The history of the waifs came out bit by bit as Renee warmed milk and cooked victuals. They were near to emaciation. Sam cautioned them to eat slowly and listened as the saga unfolded.

  The girl’s name was Anna. She had been a foundling, left on the doorstep of the Christian Brothers School. She had been raised by the school cook, retained as a servant. She was at least half-white, well shaped, intelligent.

  The boy was a different matter altogether. Cochise had chosen to send him to the school after the death of his parents during a cholera epidemic, wanting him to learn the ways of the whites, foreseeing the problems of the western Indian.

  Boy and girl had fallen in love; marriage was out of the question; the result had been predictable. Faced with separation, they had discovered the old travois, stolen the cayuse, and departed under cover of darkness. They did not fear pursuit—who cared?

  Pacheco knew the general location of his tribe; they had lived off the land, on fish and small game he could kill with the little revolver that he had brought with him to the school.

  When it was all told, Pacheco said, “With my people, we can live honorably.”

  Sam said, “Things are different under Victorio. He fights the white man. Cochise wanted peace.”

  “It does not matter,” said the Apache. “They are my people.”

  “Like you say. Meantime we got a spare room and you need to fatten up. I got some friends down Tombstone way. We’ll see what we can do.”

  “Apache friends?”

  “Not since Cochise died.”

  “I want no charity from the whites of Tombstone. I will accept your help because you were Cochise’s friend.”

  Sam overlooked the arrogance. “Well, we’ll see what we shall see, right?”

  Renee was holding the baby. It gurgled and kicked. She turned it over to its mother and said, “For now you will rest. And we can keep you busy enough to earn your way. So let’s not speak of charity ...”

  The girl named Anna, who had contributed little to the dialogue, said abruptly, “I can cook and clean house. I can sew. We will accept your help.” She gave Pacheco a hard look. “We’ve been arguing about the name of my son. It will be Samuel.”

  Pacheco started to object, swallowed hard, and was silent.

  Sam said, “Now that’s real nice of you.”

  “I would like to put him to bed.”

  Renee said, “Come, I’ll show you the room.”

  When they were gone, Pacheco said loftily, “Women. What can you do with them?”

  “Never did learn,” said Sam. “Come on. Raymond may have a chore or two for you.”

  They went outdoors. Raymond, a curry comb in one hand, a brush in the other, was working on the bedraggled cayuse. He lowered his head like a bull, glaring.

  Sam said, “The baby was hungry.”

  Raymond kicked dirt. “Uh, well—the baby.”

  Pacheco stood stiffly. There was no apology for having injured Raymond.

  Raymond took it with even spirit: he shrugged and returned to the horse. Sam led the way to the barn. Perhaps, he thought, the arrogant Pacheco belonged with the militant Victorio at that.

  He had his opinion, shared with Renee, of the dark face of the inevitable Manifest Destiny and its treatment of Indians. He knew the hopelessness of striving to correct its evils. He could face facts. The ability to do so had preserved his life on many occasions.

  He led the spirited Apache through the purlieus of the ranch buildings, explaining the chores.

  For the small time that followed, it was like having a family. Somehow Raymond and Pacheco became friends. Renee, spending more time at the ranch, fussed over the baby Samuel. Anna proved to be an excellent cook indeed—and Sam Jones was the overlord.

  Sunrise town was quiet in that time, going about everyday business, the nights in El Sol uneventful.

  On the second Sunday, Renee and Sam again sat on the veranda, a bottle of red California wine between them.

  Renee sighed. “Family. I never knew true family life. ”

  “Come to think on it, neither did I. Makes for laziness. Anna takin’ care of the baby, the boys out ridin’ the pasture. What’s a man to do?” He sipped the wine and stretched his legs.

  “I wonder if we’ll ever be ready for it?”

  “It don’t hurt any,” he assured her. Still, he was becoming uneasy. He was wondering about Casey Robinson’s offer to put in a faro layout. Luke had taught him how to deal years ago, and—

  Renee interrupted his thought. “Things are running so smoothly. We could take some time off. New Orleans? The music?”

  “A good town to visit,” he agreed.

  “Maybe we could pick up a quarter horse. Sunrise has never had quarter-horse racing.”

  “That’s a good notion.” It would certainly break the monotony. They could easily afford it. There was high gambling in New Orleans.

  “Let’s make plans.” She was like a little girl anticipating a party.

  Sam was looking past her. He said, “Seems we have a visitor.”

  Renee said after a moment, “A stranger.”

  Sam reached for the ever handy revolver. There had been a plethora of them, shooters who had read Buntline’s dime novels and would kill Sam “Cemetery” Jones for the supposed glory.

  He put the Colt in his belt. Renee arose and went into the house. Unaccountably, Sam abruptly thought: Ringo ...

  The man rode a big black horse and was fully armed. He had a big head, the kind that does not accommodate a hat with ease. On his varicolored vest was a gold star.

  He said, “Mr. Samuel Hornblow Jones?”

  “That’s my name.”

  “Mind if I light and set?”

  “You got a name?”

  “Obediah Grimshaw. Federal officer.”

  Not Ringo, then
. Sam scowled. “You got a complaint?”

  The man dismounted. He seemed stiff in the legs; he was bulky but not muscular. “No warrant, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Come set,” said Sam. “Glass of wine?”

  “Wine?”

  “Civilized,” Sam told him. “California wine.”

  The man seemed not to know if he was being teased. He sat gingerly and accepted the glass, sniffed it, tasted it. “Right nice flavor.”

  “We think so.” Sam was sizing the man up. He wore a revolver slantwise for the cross draw. His boots were not worn, his cord pants were clean, he was shaved, his hair was recently trimmed. He had evidently spent at least a night in town. His gold star was of a design Sam had never seen. “What’s the complaint?”

  “You know the Christian Brothers School up north?”

  “Heard of it.”

  “It’s for Indians mainly. Good place for ’em. Teaches ’em what’s what.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Well, seems like they got a couple of runaways. A breed gal, she don’t count for nothin’. But the boy’s related to Cochise, the old Apache chief. Grandson or something.”

  “So?”

  “Well, it’s been said you got an Indian boy and a gal and a baby stayin’ here.”

  “Who said?” He was measuring the man.

  “Well, you know. Word gets around.” Grimshaw sipped the wine. “Thing is, they want me to bring ’em back to the school.”

  “I see. And you don’t have a warrant.”

  “I’m a fed’ral officer.” He touched his badge.

  Sam leaned forward. “I never saw a badge like that before. Where’d you get it?”

  “Where—where did I get it? Uh—the gov’nor.”

  “The governor handed it to you?”

  “Well, he sorta had me make it up. Special service.”

  “In other words,” said Sam, “it’s worth just as much as you can make it stand up.”

  “Well, now—”

  Sam interrupted, “Which governor gave it to you?”

  “Governor Fremont of Arizona.”

  Sam shook his head, poured the last of the jug of wine into the man’s glass. “Now you know and I know that John Charles Fremont is a damn fool.”