Cemetery Jones 2

by William R. Cox

  If he did make a move, Sam thought, Antonio would surely be caught in the crossfire. And if they got him, there would still be Duffy in charge, dead marshals or no dead marshals. He put his gun on the table and asked, as if it mattered, “What are the charges?”

  Now Duffy entered, Maizie and the other whore on his arms. He affected surprise. “Now what can be goin’ on here? This is amazin’.”

  Simon recited, “We’re arrestin’ Cemetery Jones on charges of assault with intent to kill.”

  “Oho! He did try to kill some of our poor cowboys, now, did he not?”

  “Beg to differ,” said Sam. “If I’d have wanted to kill them, they’d be dead. They were trespassin’, you see. Just warned them off.” His mind was working with its usual speed. They evidently did not dare to kill him outright for fear of Ranger Keen. It would be best to play for time.

  Simon said, “There, y’see? A dangerous criminal. You’ll just walk out the door and down the street, Jones.”

  “You’ll have a lawyer. I’ll see to it meself,” said Duffy sympathetically. “After all, you did not hit any of the lads. Justice must be done.”

  “And you got witnesses to vow that you said that.” Sam picked up his hat, got up from the table. “Very neat, Duffy.”

  “Ah, well, a man like you, so well known. You’ve got friends to come to your rescue,” said Duffy. “Just trot along to the hoosegow, now, and we’ll see what we shall see when the circuit judge comes to Bowville.”

  “In another month or so?”

  “Six weeks, I believe.” Duffy was smiling. “You’ll be fed and cared for, I expect. This town ain’t the tulies. This is a good town.”

  “You’re a brave man, Duffy,” said Sam. “You can stand there and talk and almost believe what you’re sayin’.”

  “Git goin’,” Jackson, the gunner, said behind him. “Palaver ain’t helpin’ nothin’.”

  Sam obeyed. He caught a glance from Maizie that puzzled him, half sympathetic, half dull acceptance of defeat. The other girl was giggling and wiggling against Duffy; Maizie stood apart. Something was there, but it was not the time for him to make an exploration, that was for sure.

  He said, “One moment, please. I owe the gentleman for a meal.” He was very careful reaching into his pocket. Simon snatched his gun from the tabletop. “No sweat.” He produced a gold coin and dropped it on the table. “Thanks for everything,” he said to Antonio.

  He could have beaten Simon to the revolver. He could have downed Duffy before they got him. He knew all that even as he rejected the notion.

  Simon said, “March right on into the street, Jones.” Sam walked before the other two, Simon at his side. The gunmen knew better than to get within arm’s reach of him. Simon knew nothing, swaggering pigeon-breasted toward the jail, which was at the end of town next to the livery stable, a fact Sam had noticed long before when he was conning the terrain.

  People stared, but no one commented. The day had diminished to half-dusk.

  Simon had a large key. It was an old jail, complete with an office for the marshal, and in a sad state of dirty confusion. There was one large, iron-barred cell. Jackson and Magrew watched silently as Simon opened the door and Sam walked in, then heard the slap of the big key in the lock.

  Jackson said, “That won’t hold him ’ceptin’ you set and keep your eye open.”

  “What the hell you think I’m gonna do?” Simon looked curiously at the butt of Sam’s revolver, then put it in the drawer of an old, sagging desk. “Send some kid over to clean up this joint, you hear? It’s a damn mess.”

  “I’ll tell the boss about it.”

  “And one of you’s got to spell me.”

  “I’ll see what the boss says.”

  From behind the bars, Sam observed, “You brave boys allowed to take a leak without askin’ the boss?”

  The two gunmen surveyed him with cold eyes. “If it wasn’t for the boss, you’d be deader’n a mackerel.”

  “Could be,” said Sam. “On t’other hand ...” He smiled at them. A hanging kerosene lamp gave a flickering light. He felt the danger in the pair of them, the blond man and the dark one. They did not fear him. They acted out the drama as they were ordered by the man who paid them, without fear or conscience. These were not cowboys gone wrong, these were men born to be predators. Where they were from and how they got here was something of which only they were aware. They were a breed apart and Sam knew all about them. He watched them depart, then saw Simon sit down at the desk and burrow among papers left in disorder. Sam turned back into the cell.

  There were four bunks, cracked and filthy, one atop the other on opposite walls. There was a high, open, barred window through which not even a midget could crawl. There was a waste can, battered and stinking. And there was a figure curled up on the lower bunk on the south wall.

  The figure moved and a slightly cracked but smooth voice said, “Lamar V. Moseby here, sir. I take it you are known colloquially as Cemetery Jones.”

  “Right, but how’d you know?” Sam went closer and recognized the slight man in the checkered suit.

  “Heard some confabulations amongst the philistines.” He sat up, a slight man with slightly dulled handsome features. He had been badly mauled but seemed to be in one piece. He shook himself. “No bones broken at any rate. They did toss me about some.” His speech was soft and slow, and the words seemed chosen with care. “Odd, y’know. I was not cheatin’. Merely winning.”

  “Winnin’s all right in some places. Others, it’s an invitation to big trouble.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” Moseby squinted at him. “It appears that you, sir, are in high danger.”

  “You might say so.”

  “This feller Duffy, he has large plans. Empire-minded, from what I could gather.”

  “You gather real good.” The man was educated, and there was something likeable in him.

  “Seems a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?” Moseby observed.

  “Seems so.”

  “Feller named Jeff Davis and some others tried it. Neighbors of mine, suh. I come from Alabama.”

  “That figures,” said Sam. “Old Jeff and them, they put up a pretty good fight, I hear. Wasn’t in it myself.”

  “Nor I. A losin’ fight is not a good fight. Look at the two of us.”

  “We’re alive,” Sam said.

  “Ah, yes.” Moseby smiled.

  Sam examined the walls of the cell. They had been well built with native stones years ago. The window was out of the question. He sat down on the bunk opposite his cellmate.

  Moseby said, “I notice they didn’t search you. They took everything from me, stake money, everything.”

  “They can wait. They mean to kill me, you see.”

  “Ah.” Moseby paused, then said in a whisper, “Then it is imperative that we escape from here.”

  “Imperative is a good word. Trouble is, they built this joint too good.” Sam paused. “Further and more, they would like nothin’ better than to have me break out.”

  “They would be lying in wait to shoot you.”

  “If there wasn’t a Texas Ranger around, they would have already done so.”

  “Not a cheerful prospect. They would not choose to leave a witness, now, would they, suh?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Ah. Then we are in the hands of the lady.”

  “Lady?”

  Moseby said, “The blindfolded lady who holds in her hand the scales of justice.”

  “I’ve seen her on a couple of courthouses,” Sam said. “You count on her?”

  “Despite all evidence to the contrary. If I had been cheating, you see, I would not hold the faith. If you were the bad man they claim you are, I would not believe in you.”

  Sam scratched his head. “A lady, huh?” A big rat ran across the floor, pursued by one even bigger. He thought of the kid and how nothing scared her except the river rat. He said, “I won’t go against ladies no how. But this is a hell of a place to look
for one.”

  He thought of Renee up in Sunrise who had received his telegram by now and would be awaiting the promised letter. He thought of Mary Stone awaiting her baby. It did not improve his spirits to think of these ladies.

  The soft voice went on. “Back home I have a mother and two lovely sisters, impoverished, like so many, by the War Between the States. They depend largely upon me for their sustenance. They are very proper people, you see; they believe I am a prospector. For gold. Humorous, isn’t it?”

  “Not particl’ry. Gold is where you find it.” The southerner was a nice man, Sam thought, possibly a very clever fellow. It seemed a deep shame that he should be trapped in this dire situation.

  “Exactly. And life is what you make of it. And all that. So much has been written, so much said. An ending in this squalid place is too shameful to contemplate.”

  “It is, at that.” Sam made another round of the cell, probing the walls; estimating the size of the window. It was hopeless.

  He was beneath the high window when he heard a familiar voice. Hardly above a whisper, it said, “Sam? You there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m standin’ on the saddle. Talk fast.”

  Sam said, “I got a gun beneath the blanket on Stubby’s wagon. I could use two.”

  The voice of the maverick kid said, “I’ll be back.”

  Moseby asked softly, “Now who was that?”

  “A lady,” said Sam. “You sure call the shots, friend.”

  Chapter Five

  Duffy sat in the private room behind the saloon, arrayed in all his glory: Mexican sash around his ample middle, high, soft, black boots, embroidered jacket. He held a glass of whiskey in his hand. The blond girl knelt at his side, ready with a bottle. Maizie sat on a stool nearby. The light-haired Jackson leaned against the wall.

  Duffy said, “Cemetery Jones. Not human, is he? Got him where I want him, have I not? The dumb bastard, comin’ into town alone.”

  “They can’t find the Ranger, boss,” Jackson reminded him. “We need the Ranger to pull it off.”

  Duffy exploded, “Sufferin’ cats and dogs, we can’t find the damn kid, we can’t find the Ranger, what the hell can we do, and me payin’ a fortune for help?” He jumped up and strode back and forth. He stopped in front of Maizie and snapped, “Guns. Your goddamn pulin’ Injuns must have guns, is it now?”

  “The bullets are no good without guns,” she said.

  He swung an arm. The back of his hand knocked her from the stool. “Tellin’ me my business now, are ye? Stayin’ away from the blue stuff, a big lady y’are, now. Guns!”

  Jackson said in his expressionless voice, “Ranger seems to be lookin’ for the Comanches, near as we can tell. Mebbe you better stop knockin’ Maizie around and send her up there with some guns and orders to stay clear of Keen. Ranger gets killed, the whole damn battalion’s on our asses.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Duffy swallowed whiskey, choked, sputtered.

  “Uh-huh. So you want it to look like Jones kills the Ranger. It ain’t all that easy.”

  “We’ve got Jones’s gun. We put the Ranger by the jail and let Jones out, and that’s it.”

  “If we kill the Ranger nice and clean, no witnesses.” Jackson shrugged. “Neat whizzer. If it works.”

  “It will work, damn your eyes.”

  Jackson’s drawl did not alter. “If I’m to be damned, Duffy, which ain’t no bad bet, it won’t be by you. Me and Magrew is the ones you need. Simon’s a fartin’ fool.”

  “Simon can take his chances at the shootout when the Ranger gets to the jail. I want that Ranger. And I want that damn kid. And nobody’s doin’ whatso-damn-ever about them.”

  “You want me to start lookin’?”

  Duffy hesitated. He looked long at the two guns tied down low on the lean flanks. He shook himself. “No, goddammit. I want you to get somebody to help, somebody with the brains God gave a goat.”

  Jackson said, “Okay. About the guns for the Injuns …”

  “Yes. Dig up a few. Maizie, you take ’em to wherever the hell your whorin’ Injun’s skulkin’.”

  She nodded, keeping her face turned so that he would not see the scarlet mark left by his blow nor the hatred in her eyes she knew she could not control. Jackson strolled to the rear door and she followed him into the night.

  The gunslinger said, “Might tell you, I ain’t for slappin’ women around.”

  “Thanks. That helps a lot,” she snarled.

  “Man pays wages. I’m for hire. I can manage some decent Winchesters for your friend Soledad. You can get a pack pony at the livery stable. I’ll handle all o’ that.”

  A few paces farther on she asked, “Tell me, why do you work for Duffy? Seems to me you got more common sense and brains than him.”

  He looked away from her, off into the distance. “The way things rattle, Maizie. Once I was a boss wrangler. Man said somethin’ about my mom.”

  “And you killed him.”

  “My mom was a whore. But it wasn’t right for him to say it, now was it?”

  “I been a whore.”

  “You see what I mean, then.”

  “Ain’t anybody to take up for me,” Maizie said.

  “Not your Injun?”

  “Not the way it is. Like you say, it’s the way things rattle.”

  “But you’ll take him the guns.”

  “I got to do what seems best. God knows I ain’t able to rightly tell what’s best, but I got to do it. Whatever.” She was on the verge of tears.

  Jackson said, “I don’t know anything whatsoever about women. But seems like what you’re askin’ me goes both ways. Why are you workin’ for Duffy?”

  “Damned if I truly know.”

  “The way things rattle,” he said.

  It wasn’t good enough, but she had no words to express her feelings at the moment. They were approaching the dark end of town where the fringe people dwelt, where no one asked questions, where a cantina run by a Mexican was the focal point of all action.

  She asked, “This feller Jones. Who is he, anyway?”

  “Cemetery Jones? Hell, he’s the best gun in the country,” said Jackson.

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Damn if I know. Lives up in Sunrise. Sorta owns the town, they say.”

  “Why is Duffy so scared of him?”

  “Well, Jones is a friend of Stubby’s. And Duffy wants the Crooked S.”

  “So you just plain murder Jones.”

  “That’s the way it rattles.”

  “Like the snake. Only without warnin’.” She shook her head. “And now I’m takin’ guns to Soledad and he’ll try to kill Stone, and everything will turn out for Duffy. What about us? You and me and Magrew and all?”

  “I dunno about you, but I’ll move on. There’ll be more Rangers around, and me and them don’t get along.”

  “And where would I go?”

  He said kindly, “Maizie, where do all whores go? You marry some jasper or you take too much laudanum. This country’s damn hard on women and dogs.”

  They went into the cantina and Jackson spoke to the owner, then they went out back, where there was a cow shed, which stank, and beneath a heap of manure were rifles wrapped in canvas. Jackson handed over money and then the rifles were stacked with precision on a small horse, which was surprisingly docile.

  Jackson said, “You go change your duds and I’ll bring it along. I wish you luck with Soledad.”

  Maizie said, “Luck ain’t what it is. Just the way things rattle.”

  She hurried through the dark back alleys to Duffy’s Place and up to the cubicle allowed to her. She changed into the worn buckskins. There was a half-empty bottle of the blue liquid on her small table. She picked it up, opened it, then put it down again. It was no longer a solace to her, she suddenly realized. It was a temporary escape, but there was Soledad, and there were the guns and what must be done. There were no alternatives; she was on her own and only tim
e would tell her story.

  As she was putting the laudanum bottle down and picking up her Smith & Wesson .32 revolver, the door crashed open and Duffy stalked into the room. “Ah, me little mavourneen,” he said. “I see you’re on your way to the bloody Comanche.”

  “Jackson got the guns.”

  “He did, he did. And the Injuns will come down on the Crooked S and we’ll be right behind ’em, you see, lass? And then all will be well.” He reached out to embrace her and the fumes of whiskey stopped her breathing for a moment. Then she slipped away from him. With the revolver in her hand, she was a hairsbreadth close to killing him.

  She did not pull the trigger. She knew she would never get out of town alive if she followed her instinct. She drew a deep breath and then said, “I’ll be off.”

  He roared, “Just a minute there, me beauty—”

  But she was gone down the backstairs and into the night, and Jackson was there with her pony and the pack animal and a wave of the hand as she rode off to the hills.

  Duffy went down the stairway to the saloon. Business was slack; it had been growing less of late. Texans shied away from monopolies, but they came here because it was the only game in town. He had to be cautious, he thought, signaling to the bartender and roaring, “Drinks are on the house. Belly up, my friends. Good times are a-comin’.”

  Jackson came in the back way and nodded to him. They went into the office. Duffy said, “Now, m’boy, we’re all set, y’see? Just get that Ranger in here and all will be fine and dandy. Keep a watch.”

  “Magrew and two others are outside, Simon’s inside.”

  “But no word of the Ranger?”

  “Maizie’s gone to the Comanches; mebbe the Ranger’ll follow her. Then when he knows where the Injuns are, he’ll be around, mebbe to send one of his telegrams.”

  “Get him before he sends it.”

  “That’s the thing to do, all right.”

  “The Rangers will be welcome as springtime if we can make it seem Jones killed this one. Ah, it’s a fine scheme,” Duffy said.

  “You need me anymore tonight?”

  “Best to see that the boys are in the right places. I depend on you, Jackson. You’ve got more savvy than the others.”