Grimshaw drew himself up. “I was with Fremont in California, sir.”
“A great explorer, a fool politician,” said Sam. “Now, if I had the kids you’re lookin’ for and I said leave them be, what would you do?”
Grimshaw swallowed wine. “Look. I know they call you ‘Cemetery Jones.’ I ain’t a fool.”
“And you don’t truly have jurisdiction.”
“That’d be for the court to decide.”
“Which we ain’t that far along that we have a court settin’ regular in this neck o’ the woods.”
“I see.” The man shrugged. “Well, like I say. A man can only go so far.”
“Yeah. You reached that point, Grimshaw.”
The man’s acquiescence was too sudden. His eyes shifted. His grin was thin. “Let’s talk about somethin’ else. A real nice spread you got here.”
“It’s comfortable.” Suddenly Sam felt exposed. The road was not the only approach to the house. He wondered where the boys were, if they would be coming in.
“Ev’ybody should settle down sometime or other. Often thought of buyin’ a little land myself.”
Now the man was listening. Sam could almost see his ears turn. He waved his left hand, dropped his right to the belt line.
“Just a few acres. Nothin’ big, but we call it home.”
The first sound came from inside. It was the blast of a shotgun. Then came Renee’s cry of, “Sam!”
The man was reaching for his gun. Sam slipped the Colt from his belt—blinding fast—and slashed. He struck Grimshaw beneath his ear. In the same instant he was running through the house, the man’s gun in his other hand.
There were three of them. One was down, bleeding in the backyard. The other two had their hands raised.
The girl, Anna, was holding the baby, crouched beneath the window. Renee held the smoking gun.
Sam said, “Now that’s nice doin’, sweetheart.”
She said, “They’re Indians. They were crawling up on us. The one I shot was about to rush us.”
Sam said, “Watch the one on the porch. I don’t reckon he’ll give you any trouble, but just to be sure.”
He went out the back door. They were Apaches. The two who were alive were staring at the one on the ground, who had been nearly cut in half by the buckshot. They were young.
Sam said to them, in their language, “You will dig him a grave.”
These were not warriors. They were quaking. They looked disbelievingly at Renee with the gun in her hands, their eyes large and round.
She said, “I had to do it. The baby.”
“Go up front. Watch that fool on the porch.” He kept his voice even, watching her. She made a noise in her throat but did not crack. “Renee—you did fine.” He added mildly, “Better reload that gun.”
“Yes.” She turned away.
There was the sound of a horse. It was Raymond, rifle in hand. “Heard a shot.”
Sam said, “Get an old blanket and wrap up that dead one. Where’s Pacheco?”
“He was out the far end. He’s comin’ in.”
Sam said, “Give these two a shovel and make ’em dig a hole behind the barn.”
“All right.” The boy was cool, in command of himself.
The response of people under stress sometimes was amazing, Sam thought, walking around the house.
Renee was standing over Federal Officer Grimshaw, who was only now beginning to show signs of life. Sam said, “You know you did right.”
“I know,” she said.
“Those young bloods could’ve shot all of you.”
“I put Anna and the baby under the bed.” Her voice was steady.
“Good. Best you attend to them right now.”
“Yes.” She hesitated, then said, “I know it was the thing to do. I don’t like it.”
“No. You don’t like it.”
She went into the house. She had taken first shot in order to save others. It lessened remorse but did not entirely bring peace. He remembered the time she had killed an assassin sent to kill her. The hound called Dog had aided her. Dog was out with Pacheco this time and she had acted on her own. But circumstances did not alter cases. He knew all too well. He was Cemetery Jones.
He turned his attention from that dry thought to the boggle-eyed Grimshaw. “You want to talk?”
“Uh-uh-uh ...” The man stammered.
“You talk and you tell the truth. Because I can tell if you’re lying,” Sam said.
“Uh—it was a job.” He was still dazed. He undoubtedly was suffering from concussion. His round eyes were slightly crossed. “Ringo wanted to know if you was fast. You’re fast all right.”
“Is that who hired you and those Apache kids? John Ringo?”
“No. Ringo don’t hire nobody to do his killin’ for him. Uh—it was Old Man Clanton.”
“Clanton?” Luke had mentioned the name. Clanton was an enemy to Wyatt Earp down in Tombstone.
“Cochise,” the man stammered.
“How the hell is Cochise into it?”
“Uh—Cochise kilt some kin of his. Old Man Clanton wants all Cochise’s relatives dead.”
“Including the baby?”
“Baby?” Grimshaw shook his head. “Nothin’ about babies.”
“What’s Ringo got to do with this?”
“Nothin’ much. He sort of sides with the Clantons, you know? He was just makin’ idle talk. Said I should let him know if you’re actually as fast as they say you are. If I live to tell him. That’s how he put it. He thought it was funny. I don’t much cotton to Ringo.”
“I don’t know anybody who does,” Sam said. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen now. You and those other two are going to jail. There you’ll stay until the circuit judge comes to town. Then you’ll be headin’ for the penitentiary. I hope you rot in there.”
Pacheco came riding in. Now it would have to be told all over again. Renee would be in a sorry state of mind.
Sam sighed. It would be better if life had been left boring and peaceful in Sunrise.
For a week the miscreants languished in jail and Renee languished in remorse. Pacheco was morose. Only Anna and the baby seemed impervious to the dolor. Sam stayed in town for the weekend to keep Renee company and attempt to cheer her up.
On Monday Sam overslept. When he woke up Renee was sitting beside him. She was dressed for the ranch.
She said, “Sam Jones, you are a patient man.”
“Poker. Only way to win at poker. Patience.”
She kissed him and said, “Can we have breakfast at home?”
He said, “Lemme shave and clean my teeth.”
“And put on some clothes. Not that I mind, but the public must be considered.” Her eyes were clear. “I just have to become accustomed to shooting people.”
“That ain’t funny,” he told her. But it was, in a way. He tried to visualize the slender, long-legged Renee doing a “Calamity Jane” down Main Street in men’s clothing, a gun strapped to her narrow waist, to sit at the piano in El Sol, exercising her long fingers. He nearly laughed aloud.
Dog made a polite but demanding sound. Sam said, “Best feed him. Maybe you could ask ’em to get the buckboard ready?”
“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.” She saluted him and left, the hound at her heels.
She was in a light mood, too light. The pendulum had swung—too far?
Sam washed up and dressed and walked down Main Street, among the busy citizenry, acknowledging greetings. Everyone knew him and he them; it was his home place, and today it was serene.
At the office of the Enterprise, Spot Freygang hailed him.
“Wire from our man in Tucson. Victorio is out, stole some cattle from the McLowery spread. The cowboys can’t find him, he ducks over into Mexico. Seems like the cowboys steal from the Mexicans and the Apaches steal from the ranches. John Ringo’s down there, throwin’ fear into everybody. The wire mentioned Luke Short and Bat Masterson working for Wyatt Earp in the Celestial Sa
loon.”
“Those two won’t be fighting any Indians,” Sam said. “They gave that up years ago. See you later.”
The buckboard was ready. Renee was talking with the stable boy, a handsome young Mexican. They drove out on the road to the ranch. It was a clear day, but there were heavy clouds in the far hills.
Renee said, “I’m anxious to see the baby. Young Samuel.”
“Not to Pacheco it ain’t Samuel. If he gets Anna among his own people the name’ll be changed right quick.”
He went on to tell her of his time with the Apaches, of the pride of the men and the submission of the women. Braves did not work. They fought or loafed. Yet the birthrate was low. They were a strange group, a combination of tribes who fought often among themselves.
He did not tell her about the Apache girl who was the reason for his staying longer than necessary. He spoke instead of the dignity and intelligence of Cochise, and of his murder by an army lieutenant.
“There might’ve been at least a partial peace,” he said. “Cochise saw the future. The damn fool shavetail didn’t know doodley squat about the Apaches.”
She said, “Nobody’s immune to the senseless tragedies of history. Like Booth killing Lincoln.”
He nodded.
The dark clouds scudded on a brisk wind. He hurried the pace and they came to the house just as the sun disappeared. He stopped to let Renee descend. The windows of the house stared blankly at him, like blind eyes. It was one of those times when a house seemed empty, when one felt that it was empty.
The first drops of rain fell, and Renee ran indoors calling, “Anna, it’s us.”
Sam waited, frowning. In a moment Renee was back, calling, “Maybe she and the baby are in the back somewhere. The rain will drive them in.”
He drove to the stable, unharnessed and put the horse in its stall. Big drops were hammering on the roof, presaging a spring shower common to the high country. He ran for the house. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the light wagon was not in its accustomed place.
He went in through the kitchen door. Renee was sitting at the table, a piece of paper in her hand. She stared at him.
“They’re gone.”
He was not surprised.
“Look how he printed it so neatly. He apologizes for taking what they needed and will someday repay us. His people need him, he says.”
“Yeah. They sure need a kid and his girl and a baby. Real bad, they need him.”
“I wonder what he did to poor Raymond?”
“He’s probably out ridin’ the herd.”
“You could catch them.”
“What good? If he wants to go—well, he’s got the right,” Sam said. “If we couldn’t convince him to stay, that’s it.”
“The poor baby. They’ll never make that long trip.”
“Lemme check around.” Sam went into the tack room. “Well, remember that extra horse blanket we bought? You look in the kitchen and on the back porch.”
His rifle rack showed a blank spot. Pacheco had taken only the old Henry—and ammunition to fit. The boy was not a thief; he was commandeering supplies to keep him and his alive, Sam thought.
From the kitchen Renee called, “A ham. Beans. Cans of tomatoes. Eggs. Milk, a gallon of milk. Coffee. At least.”
“The boy’s no fool. With lots o’ luck he could make it all right.”
There was a knock on the kitchen door. Raymond stepped over the threshold, shedding rainwater. “Where’s that Injun? He was supposed to meet me.”
“Long gone,” Sam told him.
“Run away?”
“You said it.”
Raymond scratched his chin. “Y’know, I was up early and ridin’ out. Didn’t look around or nothin’. He—he slept in. With her, y’know?”
“Then they got away last night,” said Sam.
Renee handed the youth the note left behind. He read it and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. He figured it out real good, didn’t he?”
“If he makes it—and Victorio or Old Man Clanton don’t kill him—he might do some good,” Sam said. “Cochise has got a heap of friends left.”
Raymond said slowly, “Y’know, I begun to like the devil. He worked good, never complained. He was good at what he did. He sure was crazy about Anna and the baby. First time I ever knew Injuns were—humans like, y’know?”
“Now you know more than a lot—a hell of a lot—of people know,” said Sam. “Keep it in mind.”
Three
Tombstone sat complacently upon its mesa, four thousand feet above sea level, and spewed forth all the byproducts of primitive mankind. Its virtues were so infinitesimal that they could not be detected by the sharpest eye. The sounds and the odors were overwhelming. Heaven and hell combined dwelt within the town and its neighbors.
Three years ago there had been fifteen residents. Today fifteen thousand mixed souls huddled in and about the last of the western boomtowns. The noise, the hurly-burly, went on night and day. The mines worked twenty-four hour shifts and the miners spent their money on whatever was their idea of fun and games.
Tombstone had been laid out coldly and mathematically, after the enormous advantage of the silver lode was accepted as fact by outside business interests. A half mile long and a quarter mile wide, it stretched roughly east and west. The long avenues were named Stafford, Fremont, Allen, and Toughnut; the cross streets ran from First at the east to Seventh on the west. Buildings of adobe and frame jumbled without plan one upon the other. There were no vacant lots; indeed the population overflowed by the thousands into Charleston, Contention City, Fairbank, and other clusters where stamp mills, small factories, and other businesses prospered in the hot, dry climate of southeastern Arizona Territory.
Above all, as nature had it, were the mountains, among them the Dragoons, where Cochise’s stronghold could still be detected, and which Victorio used now and again between his raiding essays into Mexico and the ranches southward nearer the Mexican border. This was, and always had been, Apache country. The tribes had fought among themselves for more years than history disclosed and were now united in their hopeless, brave last defense against the encroachment of the white men.
Below, to the south, lay the fertile ground. There were the ranches, near the Mexican border, where the McLowerys, Bickhams, and Clantons had their spreads on the American side and the powerful Mexicans on the other. In between, smuggling and rustling were the principal occupations.
This evening, two dapper gents stood outside the Oriental at the corner of Allen and Fifth and surveyed the milling mob. Luke Short said to Bat Masterson, “I thought I’d seen the elephant. This here is Frisco and Dodge City rolled into one.”
“Tougher,” said his companion. “Every mother’s son in this burg carries a gun and is ready to use it. Can’t blame ’em, with John Behan the only excuse for a lawman.”
Luke said, “Then what are we doin’ here?”
Bat Masterson said, “Makin’ more money than we ever made before, that’s what.”
“Reckon it’s worth a risk or two, then. If you say so.”
“Luke, you never get anything for nothin’. A feller’s got to see the whole elephant, every inch of it.” Bat’s grin split his round face happily.
Across the street was the Crystal Palace, equally as opulent as the Oriental. On the other corner was the Cosmopolitan Hotel, where Luke and Bat resided. None of these had been built by miners and gamblers; big business had moved in where millions in silver was being extracted from Mother Earth.
A man came from the Crystal Palace into the noisy multitude and stood, staring. The mob eddied past him. He held his post.
Bat said, “Look there—Charlie Storms. He’s been sober since Behan got him that job. He knows he’ll be fired if he gets drunk just one time.”
“One of us’ll probably be dead if he gets drunk.”
“Oh, Charlie’s not a bad hombre.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Luke.
Storms went on his way. A burly, bearded man swaggered close to Luke and Bat. A tiny Irish miner—Luke knew him to be Lefty Maguire—stumbled and ran against the big fellow. The man punched the little miner, roared an obscenity, kicked him as he lay on the walk, drew back a boot to kick again.
Luke laid the barrel of his gun against the man’s neck. The big man ignored it; he braced to drive home his kick. Then Bat smashed him from the other side with a fist.
The big stranger drew a revolver and Luke heard it go off—saw the bullet strike Maguire in the shoulder.
Luke kicked the gun from the man’s hand. Bat tripped him, knocked him down, and dug a heel into his jaw. The big man groaned and lay still.
Sheriff Johnny Behan appeared—lean, suspicious, officious, and nervous as always. He had his cursory look at the situation and puffed out his narrow chest. “Masterson, Shorty you’re under arrest. That’s Curly Bill Brocius you assaulted.”
John Clum—dignified, tall, calm—stepped forward through the crowd that immediately assembled. He said, “Sheriff, once again you have matters confused. Brocius assaulted this miner. Short and Masterson defended the victim.”
Behan backed off quickly. “Ah, well ... Mayor Clum. If you were a witness ...”
“Take Brocius to jail.”
Behan glanced behind him. Four booted and spurred cowboys, fully armed, thrust through the crowd. The leader demanded, “Who done this?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Clum told them. “Advise you mind your business, Clanton.”
Luke watched narrow-eyed.
The leader was Ike Clanton, tanned, youthful, sharp visaged. He said, “Curly Bill’s our compadre. You boys know that. You want to think again, Mr. Mayor?”
“I’ve said what I had to say,” John Clum said tightly. He was not a man of violence, but it seemed neither was he a man to back away from it.
Behan interposed in his nervous, fussy manner, “It was Masterson and Short. But the mayor says Billy was askin’ for it. Maybe you boys can help me take him away?”
“To jail,” said Clum.
“To jail,” echoed the sheriff reluctantly.
Luke had his hand on his gun; so did Bat Masterson. Ike Clanton scowled. Evidently he disliked the odds. What he said was, “All right. Let’s tote him down there. And you”—this to Clum—“we’ll handle it our way—sooner or later.”
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