Cemetery Jones 2

by William R. Cox

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Sam Jones.

  Better known to the world as Cemetery Jones.

  But no man calls him that to his face more than once.

  Jones wears notches on his soul the way others wear them on the butts of their guns. He’s about to add one more when an old friend enlists him in a desperate range war against a thieving, murdering rancher. Joining him is the mysterious Maverick Kid, riding hard and hot on a secret vendetta.

  The Kid turns out to be a hell of a help in a knock-down, drag-out battle of bullets!

  CEMETERY JONES 2: CEMETERY JONES AND THE MAVERICK KID

  By William R. Cox

  First published by Fawcett Books in 1986

  Copyright © 1986, 2018 by William R. Cox

  First Edition: November 2018

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Chapter One

  Samuel Hornblow Jones sat on the veranda of El Sol Saloon, boots outstretched, resting in the afternoon shade. The pleasant valley town of Sunrise lay stretched out before him, with people going about their business in leisurely fashion. It was springtime and every prospect pleased the eye.

  Inside, Renee Hart played Beethoven, one of the opuses; he could never get the numbers straight. He enjoyed music, but there was, he had discovered, something a bit wrong with his ear; he could not distinguish the finer points but only responded to rhythms and melodies. He did, however, certainly respond to the handsome Renee Hart.

  It was a time of contentment, of peace. He admired his boots, handmade in El Paso by a Mexican artist, suitable for both walking and riding, not cowboy footgear but those of a well-to-do citizen, soft and comfortable. He had, he admitted, become somewhat of a dude, what with Renee choosing his wardrobe and having time on his hands. Only the Colt .44 at his side was a remembrance of other times. Without it he would have felt naked. A boy and his dog went trotting by, yelling, “Hey, Sam!” waving, grinning.

  “Go get ’em, Dink.” Sam knew everybody in town. He was by all standards a settled citizen, a man of means. He had never thought of such a circumstance coming to pass, having been for the main part too busy at this and that before now.

  Marshal Donkey Donovan, youthful, scrubbed, and neatly attired, rode in and waved as he made his way to the livery stable. Sam had been his sponsor after the death of old Dick Land. Donkey was part of the warp and woof of Sunrise.

  Farmer Edison drove his hay wagon in and pulled up at the establishment of Mayor Wagner: Hay, Grain and Feed. Down the street little Dink hooted and suddenly dove from the street to the boardwalk. Two riders were coming, charging in too fast, throwing up clouds of dust behind them.

  Sam half rose, peering. The first rider entered town, bending low. The second drew a rifle from its scabbard. The shot rang clear in the afternoon air.

  The first rider went down, sideways to the right, his foot caught in the stirrup. The rider who had fired pulled up, endeavoring to turn his horse and make a run for it.

  It was a long shot, but Sam did not think twice about it. The Colt came automatically into play; he seemed not even to aim.

  The second rider threw up his arms. He bent double, then dove from the saddle and lay in the road, unmoving.

  “Head shot,” muttered Sam. “Damn. Could’ve asked that jasper some questions. Gettin’ out of practice loafin’ around town.”

  Suddenly Main Street was full of people. They ran to catch the horses of the two riders; they ran to the prone bodies. Renee Hart come out and put her hand on Sam’s shoulder even as he automatically reloaded his revolver. She was a tall woman with wide shoulders, always dressed in long gowns made far away from Sunrise. Her dark hair was drawn back over shapely ears to hang loose in waves. Her large onyx eyes rested sadly upon the scene.

  She said, “Did you have to do it, Sam? Did you have to?”

  “Could’ve dropped the horse,” Sam confessed. “Shoulda, in fact. Thing is, the horse didn’t shoot anybody.”

  Donkey Donovan was kneeling by the first victim. He looked up, beckoned to Sam. “Man’s callin’ your name.” Sam walked to the spot where a sunburned, creased face stared up at him. “You Charlie Downs?” he asked.

  The man said, “Was ... Stubby Stone ... sent me ...” The man half smiled and died.

  “Stone a friend of yours?” asked Donkey Donovan.

  “One time. Long ago. Didn’t turn out good,” said Sam.

  Dr. Oliver Bader came up to them with his black bag. He was more sober than usual. He shook his head and asked, “How about the other one?”

  “Might’s well get Jim Spade for ’em both,” Sam told him.

  Spot Freygang was running, struggling with his bulky camera equipment, and calling, “Lemme get them. Lemme get the whole scene. The paper comes out tomorrow.”

  “One thing about Spot,” the doctor said. “He’s always on the job. Necrophilia of a sort.”

  “Whatever that means.” Sam was staring down at Charlie Downs. Memories were flooding him, mainly unpleasant. The peace and quiet of Sunrise had been cracked like a broken mirror all within a very few moments. He went back to where Renee waited. People ran to help Jim Spade carry the dead men to his undertaking establishment. Under Marshal Donovan’s directions, it became an orderly process despite the interference of Spot Freygang and his camera. Little Dink, white-faced, ran to his mother, the dog at his heels. Mayor Wagner came out of the saloon where he had been playing cards.

  “Never can have an afternoon of peace and quiet. I’d better check with Donkey.” He went hurrying off.

  Renee asked, “What about the man you shot, Sam?”

  “What about him? Donkey will learn what needs to be known. What I need is a drink.”

  She led the way into the bar. It was a nice, clean place, well run by Casey Robinson, with a long mahogany bar, back mirror, rows of bottles and shiny glasses, and lit by high chandeliers. Casey returned from the veranda and put out a bottle of the best. Sam poured four ounces and drank it neat. Renee went to the piano and played something from Bach, very solemn, not for the first time in relation to death in the environs of Sunrise.

  Sam thought about Charlie Downs, cowboy, and Stubby Stone, who had once been his friend and partner and then had been not so friendly. There was still an unpaid debt to Stubby, the rascal; he had once saved Sam’s life in a crossfire. Whatever else had passed between them, that remained a debt to be paid off.

  Sam went to the piano with a second drink. He listened to the music, watching Renee’s long, slender, lovely hands. The piece fitted his mood, and she knew it. She knew all she needed to know about Sam “Cemetery” Jones.

  To others, many others, he had been a cattleman, a lawman, a professional gambler, a miner, but never a thief. At fourteen, he had gone up the cattle trails learning that hard work at low pay did not suffice for him. He had seen the towns settle and grow, as Sunrise had, noted the changes as civilization had reached out tendrils into the West. He had known the Indians and watched what happened to them when they’d attempted to preserve their way of life. He had come to certain decisions. His character had been molded under duress, and he hated the cognomen
“Cemetery” yet knew he had earned it.

  Quick hands—he had always had the quick hands plus a certain sense of self-protection that kept him alive. His was not an impressive figure, lean and long and wiry rather than bulky. He was not a devout lover of horses, though he recognized good horseflesh and knew when and where to hire it. He knew the West, knew its denizens, and he was willing under any circumstances to face facts, however ugly. There was about him an aura of mystery.

  Now Donkey Donovan came to him in El Sol. The young marshal was a solemn, steady, tanned ex-cowboy who took his position seriously; he was brave and stubborn and loyal. He had a crumpled piece of paper in his hand, which he proffered. “I found this on the feller you called Downs. It’s for you.”

  Sam held the paper to the light of a chandelier and read aloud:

  Sam:

  Need you bad. The ranch. They got me in a bind. Mary sends her best.

  Stubby

  “So the chickens came home to roost,” said Sam, half to himself.

  “We rounded up the horses. Feller you shot rode D Bar D. T’other is Crooked S,” Donkey said.

  “That figures,” Sam said. “Crooked S is Stubby Stone’s brand.”

  “No posters out on either of ’em.”

  “Wouldn’t be. Just a couple of rannies working for their bosses,” Sam said. “From down Texas.”

  “Anyone to notify?” asked Donkey.

  “I’ll attend to it.”

  “Okay. See you later.” The marshal departed.

  Renee Hart asked, “Upstairs, Sam?” She knew his every mood. He followed her to her room on the second story of El Sol.

  It was a spacious room for a special lady. It was furnished with a taste and sensibility bred far from Sunrise, in the old city of Philadelphia from whence Renee originated. There was a Homer Winslow on the wall, bright curtains, a large comfortable bed covered with a thick handmade quilt, two deep chairs upholstered in velvet, walnut chests, and a huge closet for her many gowns. Every so often she rearranged or redecorated in part. There were two large windows, one of which the owner, Casey Robinson, had caused to be cut through for her.

  Renee sank into a chair, crossed her long legs, and said, “Tell me.”

  “It was quite a way back,” Sam said. “Stubby and I, we had business together. A saloon, gambling, whatever.”

  “Dancing girls.”

  “Part of the business. We were interested in branchin’ out. Bought a little old ranch, put some beef on it. There was this girl named Mary Malone.”

  “There would be.” Renee smiled at him.

  “Well, like I said, it was a while ago and we were pretty young.”

  “And randy.”

  “Be kinda sick if we weren’t.” Sam returned her grin. He was relaxed now. She could always do that for him. “Mary was a good gal. Her folks had been killed by Comanches. She was the dressmaker in town. What happened was, Stubby ran a whizzer on me. Another gal, worked in the saloon, she was in on it.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Yeah, well, I fell for it, Mary married Stubby and I cut out. Didn’t know for sure what Stubby had done until I met the saloon gal again later on. Wasn’t worth doin’ anything about it by then.”

  “Nor earlier,” Renee pointed out. “You were guilty, were you not?”

  “Yeah. Besides, Stubby had saved my life.”

  “I see.”

  “Two gunners had me in a crossfire and he cut in.”

  “So now you owe him. In your fashion.”

  “Why, there’s no other way,” Sam said.

  “Right. Where is this place and when do you leave?”

  “It’s down on the Pecos. Town called Bowville. The Crooked S is a few miles south. Good range, farmin’, mountains.” He paused. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Two people dead. Morning stage?”

  “Could be.” She never held him back for a moment. If he hadn’t known her so well, he might have thought she didn’t care, wouldn’t miss him. “I’ll make it as quick as can be.”

  “If you live through it.”

  “I generally manage.”

  She shook her head ever so slightly. “It’s still wild country, Sam. You’ve been on the edge so many times. Sometimes I wonder: Is it worth risking your life at the drop of a sombrero?”

  “You still don’t talk western real good,” he said. “More like drop of a Stetson.”

  “Sombrero,” she insisted. “You do the Mexican hat dance around danger, darling.”

  “Not because I want it thataway.”

  “I know. I know. The code. The tradition.” She shook her head. “It’s what must be, that is true.”

  “No use argufyin’ on it.” Sometimes he deliberately used the common language, although he had learned better from her. It never failed to amuse her. She seemed closer to him then. He needed her now. Killing a man offhand had brought back to him the hated nickname “Cemetery” Jones. He did not want the world to know what went on in his gut at those times.

  “I think we shall have food,’ she said. “I think we shall have drink. I know we shall have music. I hope we shall have love this night.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He arose and bowed low.

  She came to him and they held each other with the utmost tenderness.

  Chapter Two

  The driver of the stage was an old-timer. He handled the ribbons of six horses with consummate ease and his tongue ran with the cadence of the hoofs. “You heard about Pecos Bill? How his family done lost him in Texas and he was raised by coyotes and grew so mean the rattlers used to hide when they heard him comin’?”

  “I heard,” Sam said. He was bone-weary from riding the stage. He was up on the box to avoid the gab of a drunken drummer and a woman of some avoirdupois, who reeked of cheap perfume.

  “Used mountain lions for saddle horses. Didn’t have no pets, so he invented scorpions.”

  “I heard.”

  “Pecos Bill, he was a Texican.”

  “I heard.” Sam had asked only if there was a stage between Pecos and Bowville.

  “Ain’t no stage to Bowville,” the driver said.

  It was just as well. One more ride in a Concord or atop one and he would be jostled to death—or bored to pieces.

  “Heard there was trouble down Bowville way,” the driver went on. “Them ranchers, they’re always feudin’ and fussin’. Not that Pecos ain’t a tough burg. You know Pecos?”

  “Long time ago,” said Sam. He hoped nobody in town remembered him. He would have to buy a horse, he supposed; renting would be risky—for the horse. Pecos had grown, he knew, since the days when he had walked its boardwalks and dealt with the toughest of the tough. It had become the seat of operations for farmers and ranchers since then and had probably calmed down a bit. There was still the saying, “No law west of the Pecos,” which meant the river, and Bowville was indeed west of the one-hundred-and-thirty-mile stream.

  The driver maundered on about the town of Pecos and all the bad men and gals he had known there over the years until they came down the main street and he cracked his whip before pulling up at the stage station. Sam gathered his bedroll and his rifle and swung down, his bones creaking. He looked up at the driver and said, “You never did tell me how Pecos Bill mounted a cyclone and traveled over three states levelin’ mountains and uprootin’ forests. That’s how come we’ve got the Panhandle. Bill never would’ve stopped if the cyclone hadn’t rained out on him.”

  Leaving the old man agape, Sam limped toward the Pecos House and registered. He went immediately to his room, then found a youth on duty and ordered hot water for a bath. He had never been more in need of a decent meal, especially after those served at stage stops. One more day of that kind of travel and he’d no doubt wish Stubby had forgotten his name.

  After an hour, it was still daylight and he felt better. He gave the boy his laundry to be done that night, paid in advance with a generous tip, and went down to the lobby. It was a first-class host
elry, with a buxom lady behind the desk. She told him, whispering conspiratorially, that the best food was not served on the premises but down the street at Josie’s Eatery. Sam often had that effect on women, of which he was well aware and never hesitated to utilize.

  Josie turned out to be the sister of the hotel lady and the food was indifferent, but since Sam was ravenous, the meal sufficed. It was still daylight when he left to find the livery stable. There he met a character named Buffalo Willy who tried to sell him two broken-down beasts before he admitted to owning a big roan called Junior that he might sell for a price. Sam wearily bargained and finally, after a close examination and a walk around in the yard with the animal, parted with fifty dollars and another fifty for saddle and bridle and blanket.

  Buffalo Willy, who had a goatee and long hair, asked him where he was from.

  “Up north,” said Sam.

  “Goin’ south?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “Bowville?”

  “Maybe.” There was obviously a reason behind the man’s curiosity.

  “Hired out to Duffy?”

  “Don’t know any Duffy.”

  “You’re wearin’ that gun low and tied down.” Buffalo Willy cackled.

  “This Duffy is hiring gunners?”

  “You get to Bowville you’ll learn.”

  “Could be.” Sam departed, walking back toward the hotel. It was now dusk. There were few people in the streets. In an alley near the hotel, there was a scuffle going on. Kids were fighting in a pack. A couple of passersby stopped to cheer them on. Pecos was still that kind of town. Sam took a look.

  There seemed to be three boys attacking each other. Then Sam perceived that two of them were working on one, a small, skinny kid who swung both hands and an occasional foot. Still, there could be no doubt of the outcome. One of the pair kicked the lone kid in the shins. The little one winced but did not cry out. It was then that Sam decided to take a hand. He grabbed the attacking pair and held them at arm’s length. He said, “Can’t fight fair no how, huh?” He shook them, swung them around, and pitched them into the street. One of the bystanders said, “Hey, you got no cause buttin’ in.”