Cemetery Jones 5

by William R. Cox

  “They’ll slaughter those cowboys before they know what hit ’em.”

  “Fine. Let ’em.”

  “No. If they get past the cowboys, they’ll attack Pacheco’s people.”

  Luke scowled. “You sayin’ we should give the Clantons a hand?”

  “No. Just even up the odds a little.”

  “Yeah,” Luke whispered. “A plague on both their houses, right?”

  Sam felt around the base of the rock parapet where several loose stones lay scattered. He selected a fist-sized chunk and weighed it in his hand.

  One of the advancing warriors was only sixty or eighty feet away now, poised to make a run across the slanting slope of an open boulder. Sam waited until the man had glanced all around to make sure none of the cowboys were looking his way. Then the Indian began his quick dash across the exposed rock face.

  Sam threw the stone full force, in the general direction of the running warrior.

  The stone hit rock. It clattered noisily as it rolled downslope.

  The racket drew Phin Clanton’s attention. Phin wheeled. “Hey! Heads up!” Phin fired hastily. “Injuns comin’ at us from down canyon!” His shot spanged off the rock, several yards behind the running Apache.

  The warrior almost made it to cover.

  Then half a dozen cowboy rifles opened up. One or more of them found the target.

  The warrior sprawled, falling with a sickening bone-cracking noise; there wasn’t much question he was dead, or so close to dead it didn’t make a difference.

  The rocks suddenly seemed to be filled with half-naked braves, dashing toward the nearest cover.

  Cowboy rifles opened up in full angry fusillades and soon the Apaches were shooting back. Sam recognized the distinctly different sounds of light-cracking .44 Winchesters and heavy thudding .45-90 Springfield single-shot trapdoors, and an occasional deeper booming explosion that he thought had to be the sound of an ancient big-ball musket—the kind of antiquated smoothbore weapon some prospectors and Indians still carried. The gun of the dirt-poor.

  The Apaches were angry now. One of their own had been killed.

  Like hornets from a disturbed nest they swarmed forward through the rocks.

  The parapet made a natural rifle rest. Sam drew a bead on an Apache but held his fire. These warriors had done nothing against him, and Sam wasn’t in the habit of shooting at people who weren’t shooting at him.

  If the Apache discovered him and Luke, and made a try for them, then he’d have to shoot. Otherwise—live and let live.

  The racing brave ran past, just under their parapet, and continued running away from them amid the rocks, heading toward the cowboys.

  Sam caught Luke’s glance of relief. Luke’s fist was so tight on his rifle that the knuckles had gone white. But Luke grinned and then they both returned their attention to the confused fray up canyon.

  From their vantage point, Sam could see the hollow in which one of the outlaws held the string of saddled horses. The Apaches, running through boulders lower down along the slopes, could not see the horses. Meanwhile the cowboys appeared intermittently in view, racing a-clatter toward the horses.

  Sam thought fast. If the cowboys got there first, and had time to get mounted, they would be able to make an easy getaway, outrunning the Apaches who were on foot. That would leave the Apaches—undoubtedly Victorio’s band—free to attack Pacheco’s unfortunate little group with no obstacle.

  On the other hand, if the cowboys’ escape were delayed, it would force a battle between the cowboys and Victorio’s warriors. That might lead to a more evenhanded standoff.

  And it gave Sam a further idea ...

  There was a good deal of shooting now. No need to keep his voice down to a whisper. He said to Luke, “Supposin’ we stir things up some. Make enough confusion back there, maybe it’ll give us a chance to sneak Pacheco and his folks out of here.”

  “Good idea.” Luke, immediately understanding his meaning, swiveled his rifle across the top of the parapet.

  Both men aimed. They looked at each other once, grinned, settled the aim, and began firing.

  Their bullets whacked off rocks all around the picket line of horses, making a racket—scaring hell out of the horses.

  The cowboy horse handler didn’t have a chance. He was nearly trampled in the stampede.

  Wrenching loose of the light picket line, the horses bolted down canyon through the boulders, making a great rataplan of hoofbeats that echoed back and forth in a thundering din.

  Sam saw one man reach out and snag a bewildered loose horse. The cowboy gathered the reins, bounded into the saddle, and raced off amid the rocks, with Apache bullets whining after him.

  That was Phin Clanton.

  Trust a Clanton, Sam thought, to light out, leaving his companions to their own devices.

  Far as he could see, Phin got away clean.

  The rest of the cowboys weren’t as lucky. Their horses gone, they faded into the rocks, firing steadily in an attempt to hold back the Apache attackers, who filtered relentlessly forward in the darkening boulders.

  The Indians had already passed below Sam and Luke’s position and were continuing to press the fight uphill toward the narrow head of the canyon. The cowboys retreated before them, on foot.

  The noise of shooting was ragged; the smell of powder smoke was bitter on the air.

  Sam touched Luke’s shoulder, jerked his head toward the oasis, and began to make his way silently down through the rocks.

  That was when he came face-to-face with an Apache brave.

  A straggler ...

  The Apache had a musket in one hand, a knife in the other. It was close quarters; no time for Sam’s rifle or the Indian’s musket. The knife whipped toward Sam and, with unthinking speed of reaction, he parried with the extended barrel of his rifle.

  The blade was deflected.

  It was all blinding fast, and uncertain in the poor light.

  The Apache braced for another lunge. Sam’s rifle was pointed the wrong way, having swung to the side against the knife.

  He saw the knife lunging up at him and heard Luke’s feet coming along behind him and knew his friend would be too late to help.

  Only one chance ...

  He continued swinging the rifle away, off to his left, and it brought the heavy wooden butt stock forward—against the swift-rising knife.

  The blow must have broken the Apache’s hand. The knife dropped to the ground. But the Apache had a heavy musket in his other hand. It was cocked and it was coming up ...

  Sam heaved upward on his rifle. The butt stock, with its heavy metal strap, slammed upward beneath the Apache’s chin.

  The man’s head rocked back. There was a sickening snap.

  The musket began to drop from the Apache’s hand. Suddenly Luke was there—his free hand scooping the musket out of thin air to prevent it from dropping onto the rocks where, most likely, the fall would have set the thing off and alerted everybody within a mile.

  Sam broke the warrior’s fall and let the man down to the ground.

  Luke knelt and examined the Apache, laid a finger along his throat to feel for a pulse, and shook his head.

  “Neck’s broke. He’s dead.”

  Sam felt the hollow touch of regret. He shook his head and stepped past the downed warrior.

  Luke uncocked the musket, laid it silently on the ground, and came along with him.

  They reached the edge of the open flats and stopped to reconnoiter.

  Then Sam stepped out past a huge boulder, as big as a two-story barn. The two battling armies up the canyon couldn’t see him on this side of the rock, but the little group in the trees would be able to glimpse him, easy enough.

  The trick was to let them see him but not get killed in the process.

  Showing himself plainly against its pale surface, he lifted his hat and spread his arms high and wide, in silent signal to the people in the trees sixty yards away.

  Dusk was lowering fast. He ju
st hoped there was still enough light for Pacheco’s keen eyes to recognize him.

  He was wire-tense. At first glimpse of a muzzle flash from those trees he was prepared to drop flat to the ground.

  But there was no gunshot. There was only silence, and he began to think they hadn’t seen him.

  He was ready to slip back into the rocks when they began to appear at the edge of the trees.

  Shadows at first. Then human shapes—running swiftly and quietly across the open hardpan.

  Sam counted them. Fourteen ... Fifteen ... Sixteen. No; eighteen. Two of the strongest were carrying. One carried an old woman; the other carried a little child.

  He held his breath. Luke eased up beside him.

  The eighteen made it across the open flats without raising an alarm.

  A strong fist gripped Sam’s arm.

  “Sam Jones. My friend. I knew you would come. I told my people you would come!”

  “Pacheco. Gotta say I am glad to see you alive.”

  The sound of gunfire continued from above them. Sam looked around. “Where’s Massé?”

  A small figure pressed forward. “Aqui, señor.”

  “That’s all right, then. Any of your people hurt?”

  “Three are scratched,” said Pacheco. “No hurt bad.”

  “That’s good, then.”

  Luke Short said in a quiet, dry voice, “Let’s get out of here, folks.”

  If those fools up canyon hadn’t been so intent on murdering one another, Sam thought with savage satisfaction, they might have seen the escape below.

  “Come on. Down canyon, fast as we can.”

  They moved downslope in the enveloping dark. Sam trotted beside Pacheco. “There are two warriors guarding Victorio’s horses.”

  “Horses.” Pacheco’s grin shone brightly, even in the near darkness.

  “That ain’t all,” said Luke Short. “They got a little herd o’ cattle with ’em, too.”

  Bull Baxter had come down to the dusty border town of Agua Prieta with orders from the old man to hire gunmen. But he had found no suitable recruits.

  It didn’t matter that much. The trip, he had to admit to himself, had been mainly an excuse to watch the poker game.

  The temptation had been too much. When an empty chair had come up, Bull had sat in. He had a stake of six hundred dollars, most of it proceeds from the sale of stolen cattle—money he’d held out on Old Man Clanton.

  It had taken the high rollers more than eight hours to clean him out. Bull took some pride in that.

  Now he stood among the spectators watching the play. Bat Masterson was the clear winner at this point. Ringo was holding his own. There were five other players—two professional gamblers and three rich high rollers: a Texas ranch baron and two mine owners from Tombstone.

  All five were losing, which didn’t surprise Bull Baxter a whole lot. With Ringo and Masterson at the table a man found out quick enough that poker was not a game of luck.

  There had been a good ten thousand dollars on the table the night before. But by now it had moved around some. Most of it was in front of Masterson. Masterson was laughing and talking a blue streak.

  Ringo laughed at one of Bat’s jokes.

  It surprised Bull that Ringo and Bat were being civil to each other.

  Half the spectators seemed to be there not to see the poker game but to wait for a gunfight. Yet it seemed as if the table was a kind of truce zone, where the players treated each other with courtesy, as co professionals. There were no harsh words, except for the mildly insulting jokes that poker players always employed.

  There’d been only one tense moment. Ringo had said conversationally to Bat, “Your friend Cemetery Jones. How fast is he?”

  Bat had given him a lazy smile. “You don’t want to find out, Johnny.”

  “That fast, is he?” Ringo had scowled.

  The whole room had braced.

  Then Ringo had smiled. “Tell you what, Bat. Want to make a little side bet with me? Fifty dollars says I’m faster than Cemetery Jones.”

  Bat had smiled back. “No bet. See, if I win, who’m I gonna collect from?”

  It had elicited Ringo’s explosive bark of laughter.

  One never could predict which way that crazy sumbitch was gonna jump.

  The game had been going on more than twenty hours. Bull was tired and hungry. Appeared he’d had enough poker lessons for one week. Finally, reluctantly, he stepped away from the table and went in search of a meal.

  Afterward he would turn in for a night’s rest, and hit the trail back to Tombstone. Maybe kill me an Earp or two.

  Sam Jones crept silently forward in the night, rifle in his fist.

  He reached his destination and stopped. It was a boulder, one among thousands; but this one was strategically placed, overlooking the flat hardpan half circle where two of Victorio’s braves guarded the war party’s waiting horses.

  Sam looked to his left and saw Luke easing up to another rock. There wasn’t enough light to make out Luke’s face, but Sam thought he saw Luke’s hat brim turn and dip a few inches in signal.

  From half a mile up canyon he could hear ragged volleys of gunshots. Victorio’s band and Clanton’s cowboys were still feeling one another out, trying to gain advantage in the rocks.

  In this darkness, Sam thought, the advantage would lie increasingly with Victorio. His Apaches could slide through the night without being seen or heard ...

  Sam lifted his rifle and took aim as best he could. Couldn’t really see the rifle sights. But he’d handled a long gun for such a length of time it was second nature to him, nearly a part of his skeleton; he knew where it was pointed—straight at the torso of the warrior who stood not more than thirty feet from him, faintly silhouetted against the pale rocks beyond.

  He depressed the trigger, eared back the hammer noiselessly as far as it would go, and released the trigger, thereby setting the weapon on full cock.

  But he didn’t shoot.

  Sam and Luke were here purely as backups. This setup required stealth. To take an alert Apache warrior by surprise at night was something that couldn’t be done by any white man alive.

  It takes an Indian ...

  Sam wouldn’t have been able to get nearly this close to the warrior if it hadn’t been for the noise of shooting that wafted downhill from the battle up canyon.

  Now Sam and Luke were in position to protect their friends. But only if things went terribly wrong would they pull triggers. A gunshot would bring Victorio’s whole band down on them.

  It could only be risked as a last resort, if all else failed.

  Sam’s target, the shadowy warrior, stood with arms folded, rifle across his chest. The second horse guard—Luke’s target—stood several yards to the left. Now and then each of the men would move quickly to head off any intention by the horses to move out of the little bowl of rocks in which they were penned.

  When it came, the action was lightning fast. Even Sam hardly saw it happen, and he was watching for it ...

  Ghostlike, barefoot, silent, two shadows moved in from behind the warriors. One was man size; the other much smaller.

  Pacheco—Massé.

  There was the faint glint of rising knife blades ...

  The two horse guards went down without a breath of sound.

  It was done, quickly.

  The horses hardly stirred.

  Sam waited until he saw Pacheco rise to his full height and beckon. Only then did Sam venture forth from the rocks. He descended the slope warily; no telling what secrets this night might be hiding.

  A horse snorted nervously. Most likely the sudden smell of blood, Sam thought.

  Massé drifted away into the darkness to summon the rest of the ragtag band.

  Luke slipped past Sam and knelt by the body of the warrior who had been ambushed by young Massé. After a moment’s inspection, Luke got to his feet and turned to Pacheco. “Dead as stone. How old’s that boy Massé?”

  “He has thirteen
years.”

  “Looks younger’n that. All the same, it’s a hell of a way for a kid to have to grow up. Killin’ folks.”

  Pacheco said, “If God is good, Massé will never have to kill another.”

  “Amen,” breathed Sam Jones. “Well, you and your people got yourselves some horses now.”

  Luke said to Pacheco, “You got a place to go to?”

  “My people are weary. We are ready to go back to the White Mountain Reservation.”

  “Go ahead,” Luke said. “Round up those cows and your folks’ll have plenty to eat for quite a while to come.”

  Sam said, “With luck, those two bunches’ll be fightin’ each other at least till daylight. Likely some of Clanton’s cowboys’ll get killed. After that I expect one side or t’other’ll get tired of it and go home. So with any luck, you’ve got a few hours jump on ’em.”

  Pacheco gripped Sam’s arm. “Sam Jones—you find my woman Anna? And my little son?”

  “I know exactly where they are, my friend.”

  “You tell them I will get these people settled on the White Mountain, and then I come back for my son—and my wife.” Sam smiled at Pacheco. “I’ll do better’n that. I’ll send ’em to you.”

  “You are true friend.”

  “Go on,” growled Luke Short. “What’re you waitin’ for, then? Get out of here, son.”

  Eleven

  Ike cringed.

  The old man lashed him again with the long multi-tailed leather quirt. Ike turned, took the slashing blow on his shoulder.

  Phin smirked—until the old man’s quirt took him by surprise, across the cheek, laying it open. Phin touched his face, recoiling from his father.

  The old man tried to stand up, but the pain in his hip was excruciating. He fell back on the straw pallet and threw the quirt aside in disgust.

  The filthy room was silent then, until the old man spoke in a terrible whisper:

  “You left your men behind, in the face o’ the enemy. God knows how many of ’em been kilt by now out there by those savages. And you”—he swung his fury toward Ike—“you let your brother die in the streets of Tombstone. Your brother and my two good friends Frank an’ Tom. You stood thar behint a window an’ you watched it happen an’ you didn’t lift a finger!”