Cemetery Jones 2

by William R. Cox

  Sam stared and asked, “You want any part of it?”

  The man started to speak, looked into Sam’s eyes, and shook his head, then walked away muttering to himself. Sam turned to look for the little kid he had protected. All he saw were flying legs going around the corner at the far end of the alley. He shrugged and strolled on to the hotel. Crossing the lobby to the stairway, he glanced out the window.

  Framed in a pane of glass was a face. The eyes were large and round and widely spaced. The hair was straggly, dark brown, probably dirty. The mouth was a slit, rather small. The chin was firm. It was a white face that might well denote hunger. He paused, about to go back outdoors. The face vanished in a flash.

  He looked after the flying, small figure and recognized it as that of the kid from the alley fight. He was too weary to follow.

  He went upstairs and to bed. He slept like the proverbial log.

  In the morning Sam ate breakfast at the hotel—he figured it was impossible to ruin eggs and bacon and proved himself wrong—then went down to the livery stable and saddled up Junior, the roan. Buffalo Willy waved him good-bye, calling, “Duffy pays good but he’s a sumbitch.”

  Sam rode the remembered road to Bowville, which was no main highway. It was rutted and dusty. It led through rich country. Oaks and pines grew willy-nilly; wildflowers bloomed where man had not applied himself to industry. He passed several farms and a small ranch.

  The roan was tractable and had an easy gait. A small animal scuttled across the road and Junior shied but did not buck, calmed by Sam’s reassuring voice. It was a sunny day, pleasant enough for a ride in the country.

  He came to where the road meandered away from the Pecos River, past a clump of alders he did not remember. The sun was high. He tugged at his hat brim to keep it out of his eyes.

  Three men with drawn guns rode out of the trees. They effectively blocked the narrow road. Sam reined in and waited.

  The one who seemed to be the leader was clean-shaven but had not lately used his razor. He wore range clothing that was none too clean. The others seemed sharper; they had the eyes Sam had so often noted in gunslingers, unblinking and watchful.

  “Where you goin’, stranger?” asked the leader.

  “None of your damn business,” said Sam calmly.

  “We’re makin’ it our business. You savvy?”

  “So?”

  The man was a bit confused. “So, we wanna know who you are, see? And where you’re bound for.”

  “You heard me.” Sam was wondering which one to take out first if he had to make his move. The leader was a straw boss perhaps, certainly the least threatening. The man on the right with a scar staining his upper lip might be the most dangerous. The third man did not look much easier.

  “You’re on the property of Mr. Duffy,” said the interrogator. “We got a right to ask.”

  “Don’t know any Mr. Duffy,” Sam replied. He shifted with great care so that his right hand was free to reach for the Colt.

  One of the other riders said, “Take it easy, mister.”

  “No hurry.” He was strangely relaxed, yet it was not so strange—it was a situation he had experienced before. A bird sang in the trees beyond and to the right of the riders. What had Renee said? “If you live through it ... You’ve been on the edge so many times.” So here it was, the edge of death again. He could not back down; it was simply not in him.

  The leader said, “We don’t take no razzle-dazzle from nobody, mister. No one gets through here without tellin’ who he is and what’s his business.”

  Sam said, “That right? Nobody?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Then what about that gun behind you?”

  Only the leader turned to look. In that instant, Sam had his gun in his hand and was covering the trio.

  “Don’t believe me?” he asked. “Take your time.”

  A gun went off. Dirt kicked up very near the three riders.

  Now the other two whirled in their saddles. They were experienced, so they did not go for their weapons.

  On the edge of the road, near the trees, stood a small figure. The thin kid held a shotgun in his hands. It was pointed in their general direction.

  “Makes you stop and think, don’t it?” Sam said. He recognized the kid, of course. The face was still white, but the mouth had turned hard and the eyes shone.

  Sam went on. “If I was you boys, I’d skedaddle. Know what I mean? Just keep goin’ in whatever direction you came from and don’t look back.” He holstered his revolver and drew the .44 rifle from its scabbard.

  The dark rider said, “Man knows what he’s talkin’ about.”

  “A damn button,” complained the blond man. “C’mon, Simon, you damn fool.”

  “A damn, skinny, little ol’ kid,” said Simon.

  “He’s got another barrel to that thing,” said the dark man. “Further and more, I don’t like the look o’ this strange jasper.”

  Simon said, “I’ll ketch holy hell over this.” He turned his horse around. All three rode back up the road.

  “See you again, stranger,” one of them threw back over his shoulder; then they were gone around the bend in the road.

  Sam put his rifle back in its place and looked down at the boy, who was reloading his shotgun with professional dexterity. “How did you get out here so quick, youngster?”

  “Didn’t walk.” It was a musical though husky voice. “You best follow me. They’ll be layin’ for you.”

  “How do you know where I’m headed?”

  “If you ain’t for Duffy, you’re for Stone,” said the kid. “You a friend of Stubby?”

  “I’m nobody’s friend. I look out for me.” The round face turned to ivory, cold as marble. “You took up for me last night. I can lead you roundabout to the Crooked S.”

  “What’s your name, sonny?” Sam was never quite comfortable with children. This one was patently more difficult than any he had ever encountered before.

  “Mac.”

  “Mac what?”

  “Just plain Mac.” The chin still had that stubborn set, the unwinking eyes did not change expression. The kid wore a loose linsey shirt, a pair of greasy-looking buckskin pants, moccasins, and a buckskin vest sizes too large. His hat was a battered flattop with a narrow brim. The picture as a whole was not prepossessing, yet there was an alertness, a grace when he moved toward the trees that transcended the shabbiness. Sam walked the roan into the clump of alders, which joined a stand of oak and other varieties and became a stretch of forest. There was a clearing and in it stood a wiry mustang wearing a beat-up cavalry saddle. There was a bedroll in place, and on the ground was a package. The kid called Mac opened the package and took out hardtack and jerky, motioning for Sam to join him.

  “No, thanks,” Sam said, swinging down, trailing his reins. “You live around here?”

  “Yep.” The boy was nibbling at the food, staring hard at Sam.

  “Whereabouts?”

  “All over.”

  “Where’s your folks?”

  The kid shook his head. He continued to regard Sam with his large dark eyes. “You’re Cemetery Jones.”

  “I don’t cotton to ‘Cemetery.’ Sam’s more to my liking.”

  “I know. Sam Jones. Used to be with Stubby Stone.”

  “You’re too young to remember that.”

  “Yep.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “I listen.”

  Sam considered. “So you’ve no folks, no home?”

  “I get along.”

  “Just scroungin’ around?”

  “Call it whatever you like.”

  “Because of what happened yesterday you hustled out here figurin’ I’m on my way to see Stubby Stone, right?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  This wasn’t going as it should. Sam waited. Nothing was forthcoming, he found, just that unblinking stare. He finally said, “I could loan you some money to get fixed up. Buy you some cartridges. A meal
in town.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Again the silence. A bird caroled; one by one others joined in. The kid scattered crumbs, carefully folded up the paper sack, and stored it in a saddlebag. In a graceful leap, he mounted the mustang. “Best to follow me. Narrow trail.”

  There seemed to be no other course. It was not really a trail, merely a path through brush, sometimes running tightly between trees, but the kid knew every inch of it. He had probably made it himself, Sam thought. He had noted what seemed to be a sheathed machete dangling from the pommel of the kid’s saddle. That would account for the shorn brush at occasional spots along the way. This was a mysterious kid, all right, and Sam had made no inroads in the mystery.

  He called out and the kid stopped. He asked, “Back yonder, somethin’ puzzled me. Feller said I was on Duffy’s property.”

  “Duffy bought up there.”

  “I thought he had a ranch down by the Crooked S.”

  “He does.”

  “This Duffy, he’s spreadin’ out a heap, seems like.”

  “Right.” The monosyllable was cold as ice.

  “You know him?”

  Thin shoulders shrugged, then the kid pointed ahead. “Right through there and you’re on the edge of Bowville.”

  “Comin’ along? Buy you a meal at least.”

  “I got other business.”

  “You’re a funny kid. Seems like I could maybe do somethin’ for you if you’d pay heed.”

  “I appreciate it,” said the boy, and his voice sounded thinner, even more melodious. “Got to do it my own way.”

  “Do what?”

  The shaggy head wagged. The mustang swung about and the boy was gone back into the woods. There was no sense following, Sam thought. In the first place, he could get lost trying to keep track of the flying mustang and its rider. In the second place, it was like getting blood out of a stone to extract anything informative from the lad. Somehow he had a notion that they would meet again. He rode on.

  Bowville had changed some. There was a small park in its center, and a new street ran east and west to match the old main stem running slantwise northwest by southeast. There was also a new hotel. Sam put his horse up at a convenient stable and carried his bundle to the hotel. He registered, unwilling to ride to Stubby Stone’s ranch after dark. The clerk advised him to eat at Antonio’s Cafe.

  Following his directions, he walked along the main stem. The streets were busy with swaggering cowboys, townspeople, a couple of farmers, teamsters from a freight train up at the edge of town, dogs, women in sunbonnets, a couple of giggling teenage girls, and kids swaggering in imitation of their elders. The men still wore guns, he noted, glad that he had neglected to leave his at the hotel.

  He found Antonio’s Cafe, which was empty of customers at this early hour, and took a table near the window. A stout man with a bandito’s mustache, an apron around his ample middle, came from the kitchen and said, “Ain’t ready for supper.”

  “Clerk at the hotel sent me,” said Sam. “I’m hungry for a decent steak, scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes, and whatever. Beer, too, if it’s cold.”

  The man took a second look, cocking his head to one side. He said, “Don’t I know you?”

  “That don’t matter, does it? I’m here for food.”

  “I was a swamper across the street.”

  Across the street was the saloon once owned by Sam and Stubby Stone. A sign now read DUFFY’S PLACE. Sam squinted at the man. “There was a skinny kid. Called him ‘Tony get to work, damn you’.”

  “That was me. Stubby loaned me enough to get my start here.”

  “Do tell.” Stubby had a generous streak, especially after a lucky day at the tables.

  “I remember when the gambler said your wheel was crooked and he had a cover gun and Stubby cut in. Saved your bacon. You’re Sam Jones.”

  Sam said, “Then you do know me.”

  “I put on a little weight since then. Stubby—he didn’t do so good.”

  The sign on the saloon across the way was professionally painted; the building was in good repair; men went in and came out. It seemed to be doing very well.

  “You put on a lot of weight. So Stubby sold the joint.”

  Antonio shook his head. “Pat Duffy, he crooked him out of it.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Poker game. I seen it all. Duffy brought in a dealer.”

  “Didn’t need a dealer. Stubby never did know how to play poker,” Sam said.

  “They did it neat. Stubby had an aces full. Four treys beat his ass.”

  “Sloppy.”

  “So Stubby and his wife, they went out to the ranch.”

  “So that’s the way it was.” Sam shrugged. “How about my supper?”

  Antonio raised his voice. “You heard the man. Give him the best we got.” He said to Sam, “I knew Stubby was took, but there was nothin’ to do about it. Duffy already had guns; he’d bought the marshal. All that.”

  “Who’s Duffy?”

  “Came in from Mexico. Gold, he had gold. Bought the spread next to Stubby’s, y’know? On the river? ’Course you know.”

  “I know.” The picture was clear except for one aspect. “You mean Stubby hasn’t got men?”

  “Some. Charlie Downs.”

  “Forget him.”

  Antonio nodded. “He’s been gone awhile.”

  “He’s gone for good.”

  Antonio stroked his mustache. “He wasn’t much.”

  “He was alive.”

  “Sam Jones. Okay. Me, I mind my own business, y’know? But if I can do anything ...”

  “You already did.”

  A customer opened the door, and Antonio moved fast for a fat man, saying, “Best we don’t know each other.” He went to the kitchen as the customer took a seat across the room, staring at Sam.

  The activity in the street continued. Sam watched Duffy’s Place. It continued to fill up. Duffy was doing a land-office business. Sam wondered if he was in town, this Pat Duffy.

  The meal came: a thick, juicy steak, lightly scrambled eggs, a bowl of mashed potatoes with gravy on the side, and a platter of biscuits with butter and honey, plus a steaming cup of coffee and an icy-cold bottle of beer. It seemed that Antonio knew his business.

  The other customer rose and went to the kitchen door, spurs clanking. He was lean, tanned, weatherworn. He said, “I’ll have what the man is havin’.”

  Antonio’s voice came faintly. “Ain’t suppertime. The man’s a special customer.”

  The stranger stepped inside the kitchen and said something Sam could not hear. Then he recrossed the room and stood looking down at Sam. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m a stranger in town. Mind if I join you?”

  There was a very small shield on his vest. Sam asked, “You the marshal?”

  “Ranger.”

  “Set yourself.” Texas Rangers were not to be ignored under any circumstances, Sam knew.

  “Had a hard ride down from Pecos,” said the Ranger. “Name of Keen.”

  “Sam Jones.”

  “Pleased.”

  The conversation seemed to be at a standstill. Then Sam asked, “Any of my business what’s happening?”

  “Maybe. You heard anything about a range war?”

  “Somethin’. Has to do with a man named Duffy?”

  “And one by the name of Stone.”

  Sam nodded at the establishment across the street. “Duffy seems to do right well by himself.”

  “I’m findin’ that out. Don’t take but a question or two around town.”

  “You checked out the saloon yet?”

  “I like to fill my stomach before I drink.” The lean face could smile easily and pleasantly.

  “Me, too.”

  The Ranger rubbed a thumb across his upper lip. “Sam Jones. You’re not wearin’ your badge.”

  “I retired.” The Rangers always knew too much. There were not many of them, but they had hundreds of friends.

  “Sunrise, up nor
th. Outlaws. The Colemans. Rob Pitman.”

  “Yup.” There was no use denying it. It had all been in the Sunrise Enterprise, thanks to Spot Freygang, reporter and photographer of dead men.

  “They rebuilding the town?”

  “Yup.” The least said the better. Sam ate the good food.

  “Mean bunch you cleaned up.”

  “The meanest.” Sam added, “Not me. The town.”

  “We heard. You down here to see Stubby Stone?”

  The pleasant Ranger knew altogether too much. Sam said, “Possibly.”

  “We sorta keep track of things here in Texas,” said Keen, still smiling. “Range wars, barbed wire, none of our business. Until somebody get hisself killed.”

  “Way I hear it—range war or not, one murder—one ranger.”

  “They do say.” Keen shrugged. “Ain’t many of us. Big damn state, Texas.”

  “Yup.”

  Antonio brought over an identical meal to Keen. Sam said, “Antonio, put up some decent grub for me, please?”

  The fat man whisked an apple pie out from under his apron. “On the house. Savvy?”

  They both said, “Thanks.”

  Antonio said, “Trouble comin’. I got to stay out, understand?”

  The door slammed open, and Antonio turned toward it, resigned, hands folded beneath the apron. A big man entered. He wore a Spanish-style flat hat beneath which graying hair showed, a short jacket, and tight black trousers. He had long, strong legs and arms. On his pug-nosed, rubicund face was, Sam noted, “the map of Ireland.” He had hard blue eyes, a wide mouth, clean-shaven pink skin, and a slightly prognathous jaw. Close behind him were two flashy saloon girls and the three men Sam had encountered on the road.

  The man called Simon said excitedly, “I told ya. That’s him. That’s the smartass.”

  “Please, Mr. Duffy, no fighting in here. My furniture, my kitchen,” pleaded Antonio. He need not have given the tip-off as to the identity of Pat Duffy, Sam thought, but it was a generous thought.

  Duffy stomped across the board floor on black boots with heels that made him appear even taller than his natural height. He stood behind Keen and stared down at Sam.