Cemetery Jones 2

by William R. Cox

  “They kill Mexicans, Apaches, whoever. They got to figure to be targets themselves whatever they do. You go out tonight on that horse I gave you.”

  She said, “Yes.”

  “The thing about you,” he said, beaming, “is that you are smart enough to know the answers. You won’t be sorry, Maizie, believe me.”

  “Thanks.” She was already sorry, but she was patient enough to allow him to fondle her while she made plans for a sortie into the land she knew so well.

  Chapter Four

  The usually infallible alarm in Sam Jones’s head did not go off that morning until all of the cowhands had departed. He had chosen, over protests, to sleep in the bunkhouse. Some small delicacy had kept him from going to bed in the house with Mary and Stubby, a matter of surprise to him as he thought of it now.

  It was barely past dawn. The odor of the bunkhouse was that of oiled bridles, leather, and stale men. It had been a long while since he had experienced such an awakening. He donned his clothing and washed up at the pump in the yard. The day promised to be fair, a cloudless sky and the sun beginning its daily round ... But it was the earth that went in the circle, he had learned from Renee. He had dreamed of a woman, and that woman had been partly Renee and a bit of Mary from the old days. A disconcerting dream. It was the resultant restlessness that had caused him to oversleep, he thought, hastening to the kitchen.

  There another old familiar smell greeted his nostrils, that of pancakes as round and flat as the frying pan and baked beans. His stomach turned over once, then accepted the ranch breakfast that Matilda was dealing out to Stubby and Pit Pickens.

  “Steppin’ on your shirttail, eh?” The oldster grinned. “Too much city life.”

  “Reckon that’s it,” Sam said.

  “Thought we’d ride the fence,” said Stubby. “Let you see it all.”

  “Mary okay?” asked Sam politely.

  “Sleeps late. Doc says she should, ’count of losin’ the others.”

  “Ah, I see.” Mary’s baby had become a deep concern. It could have been his, and his life would have been vastly different. And, he told himself severely, he would not have met Renee. He finished the breakfast in silence.

  Pit put together some fodder in a sack and went to the yard to help the wounded Francisco with the chores.

  Stubby said, “I know how you feel about Mary and the baby and all, but what can we do? Duffy’s got a mortal lock on me. I could maybe sell out.”

  “Not likely,” Sam said. “We’ll augur somethin’ out. You need more men, that’s a big one.”

  “Can’t find ’em. That’s why I sent for you. Took a lot outa me to do that, Sam.”

  “Shouldn’t’ve.” But he understood. His old feeling for the stout little man was slowly returning. Stubby would do to cross the river with; he was just kind of boyish in some ways. They were the same age, but Sam had always felt older.

  They went outdoors. At the corral, Sam said, “You got a prime remuda here. Plenty of good horseflesh.”

  “We pride ourselves on that,” said Stubby. “Pit, he finds ’em.”

  “You goin’ to make a drive, you better have ’em,” said Pickens. “We got near a thousand head out and around. Gonna need some hands. Aim to join up with one o’ the big outfits. Got to keep up our style.”

  Sam nodded and roped his roan. Pit made a bundle of his victuals and added a hammer and nails. “We fix the fence, Duffy’s hands tear it down. You’d think the Rangers’d turn up.”

  “One did.” Sam told them about the man named Keen.

  “He better watch his ass,” said Pickens. “Duffy wouldn’t stop at killin’ him.”

  “Duffy might be damn sorry if he did,” said Stubby.

  “One war, one Ranger. Never did quite believe in that,” Pickens said. They saddled up and rode for the boundary of the Crooked S to the east.

  They rode past batches of longhorns grazing, stalking around on long legs made to carry them to the faraway railheads. Pit said, “Them’s what made Texas great. Afore you boys was born, they ran wild. Big men threw wide loops, smart men found grazin’ land, gov’ment or boughten. Cows and men died, but Texas lived high on the hawg. Still does. Farmers are okay, but who needs ’em? Grow your own, keep your powder dry, that was the way it was. A good way. No damn barbed wire, just people and animals.”

  “There’s always more and more people,” Sam observed. “They’re comin’ by the thousand and don’t you forget it. Law’s comin’, too, and I for one’ll be glad to see it.”

  “Law is Duffy around here,” said Stubby.

  “That’s somethin’ we got to look into,” Sam told him.

  There were trees stretching down and lining the Pecos River. There were wildflowers and birds and small animals scurrying; every prospect was pleasing until they came to the barbed wire. Sam rode up and down for a few rods, then said, “One hammer and a bag o’ nails won’t do it, Pit.”

  “I damn well know it.” Nevertheless, he dismounted and attempted to make repairs in the sagging lines that had been so mangled that a good-size herd could be run through without too much damage to hides.

  Stubby said, “Waste o’ time. But Pit, he makes work for himself always. That’s the way he is.”

  “Couldn’t have a better man.” Sam looked past the wrecked fence. “None of Duffy’s cows in sight.”

  He keeps ’em safe, like as though we were gonna raid.” Stubby grinned. “Not that we ain’t branded a few mavericks when we could.”

  They rode the length of the fence, down to the river. Then Stubby said, “I better go back. Just can’t help worryin’, Sam. The doc’s due to ride out any day now and I got to be there. You know, to stand by her and all.”

  “Sartain.” Sam was falling back into the old argot. “You go. I’ll mosey around.”

  He caught up with Pickens as the cowman was taking a breather. Pickens said, “Bad enough we got a war. Havin’ a baby at the same time, that’s hell. We need kids, all right, boys to work the ranch, take the chores off a growed man. But, hell, bornin’ ’em ain’t like calvin’ a cow.”

  “You’re just as loco about the baby as Stubby, Pit; don’t run a line on me.”

  “Oh, sure.” Pit took off his hat and mopped his brow with his rebozo. “It’s jest the way things turn around. Baby comes, we take the herd up the trail, all’s well on God’s good earth. Only there’s that Duffy.”

  Sam said, “You know we could go into town and finish the war.”

  “Yep. Me keepin’ ’em off your back while you gun down Duffy. It ain’t done that way no more, Sam.”

  “Could be. I shot Duffy’s man up in Sunrise.”

  “But he shot Charlie.”

  “That could be arranged in Bowville with a bit of connivin’.”

  “There’s that Ranger. And the local law, all Duffy’s,” Pit pointed out.

  “If Duffy’s dead, it all falls down. Thing is, I can’t do it.”

  “You and me both.” Pit squinted. “If you was that kind, you’d a done for Stubby away back then.”

  Sam shook his head. “There’s times I been close, Pit. Real close.”

  “Close don’t count except in pitchin’ horseshoes,” said Pit.

  They were silent. Sam thought of the times he had killed, sometimes within a hair of feeling righteous. He thought of the times he had foreborne. He knew Pit was right, he could not go into Bowville and kill Duffy offhand. There was cause, of course, surely more than he yet knew. But there was not reason enough, not by the way he had taught himself to live.

  As for Stubby, even back then Sam had not thought of going after his partner. He had not been forced to go with the whore, it had been his own randy urge. “All’s fair in love and war,” the old saying went, and Stubby had been unfair but he had also been in love. And Mary had believed, no blame to her, and she had chosen Stubby. And there was the shootout. No, not even in his youth had he wanted to kill Stubby.

  The echo of a gunshot startled Sam’s musing.
He unslung the rifle from its scabbard. Pit was afoot, also reaching for his long gun. Another blast and then there was the drumming of light hoofs and down the line, racing toward the river, came the little mustang with the kid aboard. The kid was flattened down and the pony was flying like the breeze across the river.

  Sam calculated the range and without a target sent shots flying into the heavy growth of trees and brush. Pit, kneeling, was doing the same. The pony came sliding in, all four feet braced. Sam reloaded.

  “Always trouble. Yours or mine,” he said. “What now, kid?”

  “Duffy’s men. They been chasin’ me all mornin’.”

  “Cowhands?”

  “Nope. Simon and a couple new ones.”

  “Simon, huh?” Pit shook his head. “Had him along to pick you out. What’s Duffy got his back so high up about you for?”

  The kid just shook his head.

  Sam said, “Hunker down, Mac. You had anything to eat?”

  Pit said, somewhat abashedly, “I got vittles. Seems like this button’s always around and hungry. Eats like a hawg.”

  “You two go on down the river,” Sam said. “I’ll make a pasear and see if those hombres are still lookin’.”

  “No,” said the kid. “There’s three of ’em, I told you.”

  “Don’t you fret. Git.”

  The old man said, “C’mon, kid. When Sam says he’s goin’ to do somethin’, you might as well go along with it.”

  There was a spot where Pit had not repaired the fence. Sam rode through it and into the trees. He sought the place where the kid had crossed and found the fresh, light prints of the mustang. It was easy from that point. The three horsemen had been close enough to fire upon their prey, he noted. They had not done so.

  In fact, if his ears served him well, the kid had fired the first shot. The gesture had been returned, but bullet holes in limbs far above the kid’s head told him that the marksmen had not been serious. This gave him food for thought: Could it be that Duffy wanted the kid alive for some reason? If so, why?

  He dismounted and trailed the reins and walked through dense brush among tall river oaks. The three men had retreated hastily under the fire he and Pit had laid down. This led him to believe that the attack had nothing to do with the cattle war, or with anything other than the capture of the kid on the mustang.

  He went back and mounted the roan and rode down the riverbank. A mile or so toward the ranch house he found them. The kid had finished eating, the bag of vittles nearly empty, Pit was telling some story of the old days, and again all was peaceful in the land.

  Sam stretched himself out on the grass and looked at the kid’s white, oval face and big eyes. “Seems like you better stop hangin’ around and settle down awhile.”

  “I’m okay. I take care of me.” The voice was low and husky. “I keep tellin’ you.”

  “They’d have run you down,” Pit said. “That little pony’s good, but its legs are short.”

  “I got my gun.”

  “You got a damn shotgun,” said Sam. “You blasted at them, but you didn’t hit anything.”

  “Kept ’em back till I could get past the bobwire.”

  “And then what?”

  “I sorta figured you might be around.” The big eyes stared back at him. “I just had a hunch.”

  Sam shook his head. “You were hangin’ around earlier. I spotted your tracks comin’ down the riverside. You knew we’d be hereabouts. Why’d you go back onto Duffy’s land?”

  “I got reason.” For once, the kid seemed a bit confused. “You want to be caught by Duffy?”

  The fire flashed again in Mac’s eyes. “Never in this world will he put a hand on me!”

  “It don’t figger,” said Pit. “God knows we ain’t got enough people to fight him. How in tarnation hell are you gonna do it all by your own self?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Why does Duffy want you so bad?” demanded Sam.

  “Duffy’s crazy.” Now the kid was sullen. “How should I know?”

  Sam said softly, “Kid, I got a notion you know damn well. Best you should spit it out. Maybe it’ll help everybody.”

  The big eyes stared at him. Behind the kid, the river ran fast, overflowing from the previous rains. The sun beat down.

  Pit said, “And come stay at the ranch, blast ye. Act sensible.”

  The mustang moved to the edge of the water, its muzzle lowered. The kid went to release the bit so that the animal could drink.

  Sam said, “It’s right, you know. Sooner or later, they’re going to corner you.”

  The kid’s head shook again; the chin remained stubborn. Suddenly, from the water, a huge river rat emerged, its buck teeth gleaming.

  The kid uttered a small scream, leaping backward and releasing the bridle. A heel caught, and the kid was in the river, floundering, sputtering.

  “Hell, he can’t swim,” said Sam. He ran and jumped into the river. Pit reacted identically, so that both of them were in the troubled waters, converging on the kid, reaching, grabbing, hauling. It was a clumsy operation, Sam thought, even as they dragged the slight form to the bank and deposited Mac on dry land, coat and vest open, the not-too-clean shirt clinging tightly against the kid’s body. Sam coughed water and then said, “I’ll be damned!”

  Pit said, “I jest don’t flat believe it.”

  As they stared, the kid ran, leaped up on the mustang, and was gone, back toward Duffy’s precincts.

  Sam said, “Did you see what I saw?”

  “Tits,” said Pit. “That’s a damn girl!”

  “That’s a damn young woman,” Sam said. “Girls don’t have tits like that.”

  They stood, soaking wet, staring at each other. Then Sam sat down and began tugging at his boots. He said, “I don’t know about you, but I ain’t ridin’ back in wet duds.”

  Pit said, “Well, it ain’t Saturday, but a bath never did hurt nobody, I reckon.”

  They spread their garments on the dry grass. Pit squatted with a rifle at hand in case of trouble. Sam dove into the river.

  The damn girl had slept in his room, he remembered now. He reassembled the lineaments of the kid in his mind’s eye: the big dark eyes, the delicate chin, and the straight but shapely lips, the grace of movement. A young pretty woman emerged.

  She had all the courage and know-how of a young man; and she was riding around, living off the land, toting a shotgun; fearless, self-contained far above average. It was impossible. But it was true.

  Another woman rode a pinto pony across Duffy’s land with impunity, crossed its border, and climbed into the hills. Frequenters of Duffy’s Place would not have recognized Maizie. She wore buckskins. Her hair was braided long and dark upon her back. She wore no rouge or powder. There was no laudanum in her system.

  She rode through alders and rock oak, and then through a canyon and followed an almost invisible trail. She was weary and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, but she was palpitating with eagerness and anxiety. She came to the top of a small bluff on the bank of the Pecos River and drew in. She dismounted, tied the pinto, and unloaded a heavy saddlebag from which she extracted a small mirror. Her reflection showed lines at the corners of her eyes and running from her nostrils to the edges of her mouth. She shook her head, then found a spot of soft brush and lay down.

  She could not let Soledad see her in this condition. She looked years older than she actually was. She was beaten down in spirit by the life she led, the life she had chosen rather than to marry another half-breed and become a drudge. She had no training, no skills. Duffy had been the sorrowful, sordid answer. Duffy and the blue liquid that was the solace and also the means of early death of the whores of the West.

  One thing she had learned in order to stay alive—to relax. She lay perfectly still now, a small revolver at her side. She had lived a precarious existence, but she was not fearful; she was numbed. She had no future; she lived only in the present. Since she had met Soledad, it had been difficult, but she
managed.

  He was not a young boy, this son of a chief. He had children by his deceased wife. They had met on one of the rides Maizie took when material matters wore her down too far. The attraction was mutual, passionate—and doomed.

  She had offered to go with him to his tribe and become his slave. He had refused because of the ignominy this would place upon her in the eyes of the other braves. Yet he could not give her up; thus they maintained these occasional special meetings whenever possible.

  She slept. When she awoke, she shouldered the saddlebag and took the path down the side of the bluff. At midpoint she fired the little revolver once, twice, paused, then fired again.

  After a moment, there was an answering shot. Laboring under the heavy saddlebag, she made her way down to the end of the small ravine. Here the Comanches were sequestered; here came tall Soledad, striding. Behind him the band lounged, indifferent, intent only on the beef they were broiling on a spit.

  Soledad and Maizie embraced. Then they walked away, out of sight of the others. There were only a dozen of them all told, contrary to the belief of Duffy and others that a large band of Comanches were raiding. Soledad’s tribe was far away on the high plain. He was here mainly because of Maizie—or Raven Santos, her real name.

  She said, “I bring you gifts.” They spoke the half Mexican, half Indian patios, not easily translated.

  “I want only you,” he told her.

  “Look.” She pulled boxes of cartridges from the saddlebag. “Bullets. From Duffy.”

  “Ah, Duffy.”

  “He wants you to raid the Crooked S. There are fine horses on that place. Duffy will help you, see that no harm comes to you. So he says.”

  “He says it out of both sides of his mouth.” But Soledad accepted the ammunition. It was sorely needed. The settlers were too well armed, too alert in these times. “And what of you?”

  “What can be for me?”

  His arms went around her, but he had no comforting words. He led her to a grassy bank and they sat close together. He was not handsome; he was flat-nosed and scarred. He said, “The horses.”