Cemetery Jones 5

by William R. Cox

  The footing grew steeper. Clutching for handholds, Sam climbed toward the top, with Luke right behind him. “Got your ammunition? May need a passel of it, if we have to help turn things around, as high gun.”

  Luke muttered, “We’ll have a hard time gettin’ off this mountaintop in a hurry if the need rises. I s’pose you thought of that?”

  Sam grunted. There was no need for any greater answer.

  After another minute’s climb, Luke said, “I’m thinkin’ I might like to get on back to town. Never did crave a big reputation as an Indian fighter anyway.”

  Sam glanced back and saw that Luke was grinning—pulling his leg.

  At the top he eased around a tall rock spire that supported a huge balanced rock overhead. The thing sat like a mushroom cap on its stalk. It looked ready to tip over at any moment. In its shade Sam crept forward until he could see down into the valley below.

  The sporadic gunfire continued, louder now because it was directly ahead. Interspersed with the gunshots were the whoops and yells of men.

  He felt Luke Short’s weight behind him and squatted down so that his friend could see over him.

  At first there wasn’t much to look at except puffs of black-powder gunsmoke chuffing like locomotive steam from various patches of rock and from two or three rifles hidden in a single stand of cottonwood trees that made an oasis in the midst of the barren rocky canyon.

  The stand of trees was surrounded by sloping rock flats. Open flats. An attacker wouldn’t be able to cross that hardpan without making a target of himself.

  Beyond the tilting flat floor, the canyon walls lifted steeply on both sides. They sported virtually no vegetation—nothing except tiny bits of scrub and a weed here and there.

  Men were positioned in the boulders on both sides of the canyon.

  Sam could see the shirt backs of two men in the rocks directly below. The men were firing their rifles across the flats toward the copse of trees.

  These two were white men. Cowboys. After every shot or so they would whoop with glee. They were making sport of it. Every time they fired, they’d move to one side, to get clear of their own clouds of gunsmoke so that they could see.

  The defenders in the trees weren’t doing any yelling or whooping. Must be Pacheco and his little group. The grove of cottonwoods wasn’t very big, but it was dense enough to hide half a hundred people.

  Farther back in the rocks, just about directly below, Sam saw a dozen saddled horses tied on a picket line. One man kept watch on them. The horse handler lay on a high rock. He kept most of his attention on the horses. Once in a while he triggered a potshot toward the trees and yelled at the top of his lungs to punctuate it, but he was at least four hundred yards out—considerably beyond effective range.

  The horses were in shadow, but when the man happened to look up and around, showing a glimpse of his long tan face, Luke said softly in Sam’s ear, “Believe that’s Phin Clanton. Just like the Clanton boys to stay out of the line of fire.”

  Phin Clanton’s sweeping gaze did not discover the two newcomers on the ridge above him. He had another look at the horses in his charge, then turned to steady his rifle and take aim at the trees again.

  He fired and whooped as if he had scored a hit, but as far as Sam could tell, his bullet must have gone wide somewhere.

  Sam caught glimpses of men filtering through the boulders along the steep high sides of the canyon. Two of them were cowboys. Probably seeking vantage points from which they could get a better shot at the Indians in the trees.

  Wasn’t going to do the cowboys much good, Sam thought; no place on these mountains had a clear field of fire into those trees. The cottonwoods were too dense.

  As if reading his mind, Luke said, “Somebody with good sense picked out those trees. Dandy place to fort up. Ain’t nobody doin’ much harm to those Innuns, appears to me. Looks like a standoff.”

  “Until one side or the other runs out of ammunition,” Sam replied grimly. He had noticed that the quantity of shooting from the trees had diminished substantially. It was down to the point where only the occasional sporadic shot puffed from the oasis now.

  Luke said, “Time’s it?”

  “Somewhere between three and four, I reckon.”

  “Then they got to be able to hold out another four, five hours. By then maybe these cowboys be tired of havin’ their sport. Or maybe they won’t. After that, if Pacheco’s folks are Innun enough, they can crawl out through the boulders and get away ’fore any of them cowboys’re the wiser.”

  “They’ll have to crawl across those rock flats,” Sam said. “Out in plain sight of God and everybody.”

  “Sure. But there ain’t no moon tonight. They can do it.”

  “Young men could do it,” Sam said. “I’m not so sure about old folks and women and kids.”

  “What do you want, Sam? You want to mix in this now?”

  “Not yet,” Sam said. The situation didn’t look desperate, and Luke had been right when he’d pointed out that, for practical purposes, the two of them could easily be trapped up here on this ridge if the cowboys learned of their presence.

  Right now the cowboys seemed to be tiring of the fun. They weren’t whooping as often or as loudly. It wasn’t much sport if you couldn’t see your target and never knew whether you’d hit anything.

  “We’ll wait it out,” Sam decided. “They may just give it up after a while. If things do turn crucial, we’ll take a hand. All right with you?”

  “You named it, partner.”

  Nine

  After his lunch of beans, bacon, and whiskey, Doc Holliday returned to the Occidental, leaning weakly on his cane. It was a bright but chilly day on the high Tombstone plateau, this October 26. He wore a long black coat against the cold.

  Inside he got the bartender’s attention. “Any word about Ringo and Bat Masterson?”

  “They’re in a high-stakes poker game down in Agua Prieta, with Bull Baxter and some others. Telegraph says they’re bein’ polite to each other. I imagine that means polite like a porcupine and a coyote are polite to each other.”

  “No fight yet, then.” Doc felt vaguely disappointed.

  “Not in Agua Prieta. May be one right here. The Clanton-McLowery boys are gatherin’. I hear talk they’re lookin’ for the Earp brothers—lookin’ for trouble.”

  “That so?” Doc looked around, his jaded interest perked. He didn’t see any of the aforementioned gentlemen in this room. Curiosity propelled him away from the bar.

  He drifted outside and saw down the street a small crowd, above which he recognized the crown of Virgil Earp’s distinctive ranger-style hat.

  Doc went along the dusty boardwalk, prodding the planks with his cane. He didn’t really need it for walking—there was nothing wrong with his legs—but there were times when the consumption caused fits of weakness and he needed something to lean on.

  As he drew nearer, he saw that Virgil Earp was holding a shotgun. He wasn’t just carrying it casually. He was holding it at the ready, right hand on the trigger and left hand on the stock. It looked at first as if Virg was holding the crowd at bay at the point of the shotgun.

  Doc eased up to the outskirts of the little crowd. It wasn’t a big mob. Eleven or twelve men. Half were miners, the rest townsmen—shopkeepers, a big young blacksmith (by his apron), a gamblin’ man Doc knew vaguely. None of them looked particularly rambunctious.

  Doc said, “What’s all the fuss about?”

  Virg said in his rumbling, ungiving voice, “Some sons of bitches rode into town spoilin’ for a fight.” He was looking upstreet, over the heads of the crowd.

  So it wasn’t a facedown. The crowd around Virg was watching him, that was all; they just happened to be on the end of his shotgun.

  Virg lifted his left hand off the shotgun. He tugged at one ear, then in an unconscious gesture polished the sleeve cuff of his dark coat across the silver chief of police badge on his lapel. “I expect it’s too late to head it off now—they
won’t be taken off to jail, not the mood they’re in. They want a fight, and I expect they’ll get what they’re lookin’ for.”

  “The Clanton crowd?”

  “There’re cowboys scattered over town. I’ve heard there’s one bunch in particular spoilin’ for a fight—two Clantons, two McLowerys, and Billy Claiborne. The one who calls himself Billy the Kid.”

  The blacksmith snorted. “He can call himself anything he likes. Billy Claiborne ain’t the real Billy the Kid. He knows it, the chief of police here knows it, you know it, and I know it, and the world knows it.”

  Doc said, with dry, cutting amusement, “He may be a bogus Billy the Kid, but he packs a couple of pretty big sidearms, as I recall. You want to go gunfight him, blacksmith?”

  “Me?” The young blacksmith was taken aback. His eyes slid away. With a new tone of grudging respect, he said lamely, “I ain’t no gunman, Dr. Holliday.”

  Doc sneered at him. Gutless kid.

  One of the miners said, “Seems to me all o’ you wild west fightin’ men ought to take your damn feud away with you and shoot it out somewheres out in the desert, ’stead of stalkin’ one another on the streets of our town.”

  Doc swung to scowl at the speaker. The miner was a pint-sized squirt with gray whiskers and stooped shoulders.

  Virg said, “I take it you’re not in favor of law and order.”

  The old miner said defiantly, “I ain’t in favor of a feud between theivin’ cowboys on the one side and thievin’ gamblers on the other, tryin’ to settle who’s the boss of this town.”

  “The cowboys are thieves,” Virgil Earp said, obviously restraining himself with effort. “My brothers and I are not. There’s a difference between us and them, whether you see it or not. We’re trying to protect you.”

  “Tryin’ to protect us, sure, so’s we can spend our money across your brothers’ tables, or get belly shot by the dentist here.” The fearless miner spat on the boardwalk. “You-all keep this up, and soon enough, mark my words, they’ll be a big battle bust out. How many of you highfalutin’ gunmen care about the innocent bystanders that may get shot to pieces while you’re usin’ our town for a battlefield?”

  Doc felt disgusted, but there wasn’t anything else to do except disregard the miner’s discourtesy; he was too old and too small to pick a fight with.

  Virgil Earp kept his voice mild. “If you’d rather not be one of those innocent bystanders that get shot, mister, I suggest you get yourself off the street. Right now.”

  Virg was looking down the road. Doc followed the direction of his glance, and saw Morg and Wyatt coming their way. They both wore long dark coats against the chilly wind, and hat brims pulled down firmly over their brows. And they both were armed.

  “Law and order, hell,” the old miner said grumpily. But he turned away and, struck by a fast-traveling scent of fear, the others melted off the street quickly.

  Wyatt and Morgan Earp walked up, stern-faced. Wyatt said, “They’re down by the OK Corral. Sheriff Behan went over there to talk to them. Says he wants to calm ’em down. Says they’re more likely to listen to him than to us.”

  Morg said, “Nothing’s likely to calm those boys down now. I expect Boot Hill will be delivered of a new consignment pretty soon, in the form of that Clanton crew.”

  Virg examined his shotgun morosely. “So be it.”

  Renee Hart had accompanied Nellie Cashman on her rounds in what she called her hospital ward. At least it was as close to a hospital as Tombstone could claim. Renee had helped the good lady dispense food to the ill and injured men and women, along with a syrup, which Nellie had brewed, containing medicinal herbs. Renee marveled at Nellie’s calm kindness to every patient, and noted that Nellie carried no hint of condescension in her dealings with the unfortunates. On the contrary, each patient received the full focus of her concerned attention. The luminous brown eyes seemed to encompass each person wholly and separately, as if that person were her universe for those moments.

  There were young men and old men, women awaiting childbirth, miners who had been hurt working or brawling. Nellie slighted none of them. Without fail she introduced each to Renee by name. Those who were well enough were sent to the kitchen for a warm meal before going on their way.

  A boy was separated from the other patients by a curtain. “Benjie, this is Miss Renee. She’s come to help us until you’re better.”

  Benjie’s eyes fluttered open in his narrow face. He must have been near puberty, but he was no bigger than a four-year-old. His skin seemed flushed and transparent. He breathed raggedly, shallowly, with desperate effort. Nellie lifted him as gently as if he were her only child. She motioned Renee to administer the medicine. The boy dutifully swallowed, coughed weakly, and strained to speak, but Nellie shushed him as she gently laid him back on the pillow she had fluffed. “Now,” she whispered, “you mustn’t try to talk till you’re stronger.” She was almost crooning. “Soon enough you’ll be up and playing and singing for us the way you did for the men in the mine.”

  Benjie was asleep.

  The two women withdrew from the curtained bed. Renee saw the glint of tears in her companion’s eyes, but Nellie’s face was composed as she proceeded into the hallway.

  Renee pulled the door shut behind them.

  “He’s dying, Renee. Dying. Eleven years old and we can’t save him. His father brought him here from Wales to work with him in the mines. The father was killed in a cave-in, and that boy has nothing.”

  “He’s got you,” Renee said softly.

  Composure fled as Nellie Cashman showed a face of sudden righteous rage, so towering it made Renee recoil against the door.

  “Silver,” Nellie said. “Silver! These people live like animals in the midst of more wealth than even they can imagine. And these children are dying with no one to care. Babies, and half-grown ones without a chance, like that boy in there.” She slumped against the wall, rage spent as suddenly as it had enveloped her.

  Renee said, “Try not to carry on, Nellie. Try not to let it get you down. You do as much as you can. Angels from Heaven couldn’t do more.”

  Nellie didn’t seem to hear her; she was lost in her reverie.

  Renee stood riveted against the door. The sights of this place had been a revelation; she was still trying to absorb it. She felt stirrings she could scarcely identify, they were so new to her.

  She could see now how childish her giddy life had been in New York with Philip. How spoiled her headlong impetuous flight had been when she felt soiled by the affair he’d had with another woman. Philip had been no more than a boy himself.

  She saw the selfishness that had imbued her own search for peace. It had brought her to Sunrise town, and to Sam Jones. And none of it, nothing had ever been enough.

  That was so wrong, she saw now. She moved closer to Nellie, making a circle of warmth in which she embraced the good woman.

  Nellie shook her head and broke away, misunderstanding. “I’m sorry. It’s over now. Sometimes I have to grit my teeth to keep from screaming out loud about the cruelty of these people’s lives. It’s so painful to know we’re losing Benjie—he’s such a gentle soul.”

  “What is it? The pneumonia grippe?”

  “Yes. Nothing to be done about it. I think we don’t deserve to have a Benjie, so we’re losing him.”

  “What about the doctor?”

  “The doctor?” Nellie seemed disoriented; she shook her head as if to clear it. Renee realized how tired the woman was. “Oh, the doctor gives us what time and attention he can. But there’s nothing he can do for Benjie. Sometimes,” she said in a helpless whisper, “we just lose them.”

  The door at the end of the hall opened quietly. A gray little miner stood outlined against the daylight. “Miss Nellie—thought you oughta know. Them Earp brothers headin’ down toward Fourth Street. They got Doc Holliday with ’em. There’s some Clantons and McLowerys done rode in just a little while ago.”

  He came inside, shut the door, and m
ade a face. “I tried to tell ’em to take their fussin’ and feudin’ somewheres else, outside this town, but those two-gun boys ain’t likely to listen to the likes of me.”

  “You did what you could, I guess,” Nellie said in a hollow voice.

  “Warn’t enough,” said the elderly miner. “Looks like we gonna have a war this afternoon down to the OK Corral.”

  “Then,” Nellie said wearily, “I suppose we’d better get the wound dressings ready. Renee, give me a hand, will you, dear?”

  Renee went with her, feeling tautness in the muscles of her back, as if bracing against the impact of bullets. She was listening behind her for the sounds of gunfire in the afternoon.

  Doc joined the Earps when Virgil swung into line with his two brothers and, four abreast, they walked to the corner.

  Doc’s cane struck the boards hollow blows.

  They turned the corner of Fourth Street. From there they looked upstreet and saw Johnny Behan outside the OK Corral, talking to Frank McLowery, who was holding a horse.

  McLowery looked toward the Earps. His hat brim lifted and he jerked a rifle out of the saddle scabbard. Behind him four men appeared at the mouth of the corral—Ike and Billy Clanton, Tom McLowery, and Billy “the Kid” Claiborne. From this distance it wasn’t possible to see if the four were armed, but there was no question about the rifle Frank McLowery was brandishing.

  “That’s how it’ll be, then.” Virg turned to Doc. “You’d better get off the street.”

  “Six to three against you,” Doc said. “You need my gun.”

  “That little popgun belly pistol?” Virg snorted and shook his head. “You’re no good with that at anything except point-blank range.”

  “Anyhow, Behan won’t shoot,” Morg said. “Craven coward.”

  Wyatt said, “This is our fight, Doc. No call for you to mix in.”

  Doc leaned on his cane and coughed. When he recovered he said, “Wyatt, that’s one hell of a thing for you to say to me.”