Cemetery Jones 2

by William R. Cox

  The sound of gunfire rang out somewhere below them, followed by the eerie chant of the Comanche victory song ending on a triumphant note.

  “Now, we have horses for all,” Soledad said.

  He grimaced, barking a laugh to impress his braves. “You say fight for Duffy. You say fight for Jones. We fight for guns and horses, and we care not whose they are.”

  “You will die.” And she knew as she spoke that they were true words.

  “Then I will die a Comanche.”

  The young brave strode proudly into the circle of firelight with his right palm out to signify the success of his mission. As if everyone could not see the cow pony that he led, Maizie thought.

  “We have horses for all.” The brave spoke with a challenging edge, glancing sideways at Maizie’s horse.

  “Any dead?” Soledad asked.

  “None of our people,” replied the warrior proudly.

  “The gods have turned their face to us,” Soledad said gravely.

  He was not unintelligent, this savage who tore her heart. He would be faithful to his father’s teachings, she knew, but she could not resist one last try. “This is foolishment. You ask for the dead? You will all be dead before this night ends.”

  Soledad turned to her, his face a mask of fury. “You name me fool, woman. Who gave Jones the guns?” He mounted and turned, signaling the others, and rode, almost without sound, into the confusion of the stormy night.

  Maizie’s breath rasped in a sob as she called into the darkness, “Go with God.” She knew that their days of riding free, the days of the moon raids, were ending.

  There was no answer to her cry. Not even the sound of riders in the brush. She stood stiffly, listening, and then broke like a sawdust doll to sink by the fire and finally, truly sob out her shame and loss into the wet dirt.

  In the arroyo, Soledad faced a messenger from his father. The man was called Dogface; he was ugly but clever, the son of a minor chief.

  Dogface said, “Your father says you are to return at once. You are to join the moon raid.”

  “My business here is not finished,” Soledad replied.

  His men groaned, openly deserting him, he knew. His life closed in on him. He sat high in the saddle, facing them, scorning them. “There are guns to be had, horses to be had.”

  “You have failed. You know it. Our people no longer honor you.” Dogface was positive; he had sensed the rebellion in the band, Soledad knew.

  He was no longer young and impetuous, and he hesitated. His woman was lost forever, of that he was assured. He had no reason to rebel. He should accept the situation, return to his tribe, and suffer humiliation. He cried, “Damn you. I ride to the sound of my own drums.”

  One of his own recalcitrant braves fired the shameful shot. It struck him in the heart. He slumped, the startled horse leaped sideways, and Soledad, the Comanche, was thrown into a pile of thorny mesquite. He died there, unsung.

  The Comanches were silent for one moment, then they gathered about the new leader.

  Sam gave Junior his head. The roan was gaunt but game. Pickens had vanished on his tough cow pony. There was only one thing to do: follow the river road listening to the clatter of horns and the braying of the herd. The cowboys would be working as only they knew how. The real danger would come when the longhorns and men came to the house and outbuildings.

  They were all out of Sam’s sight, but there was no problem knowing where they were, charging heedlessly behind the leader they had found. The problem lay in whether or not he could get to the ranch ahead of them.

  He came at last to the path leading from the river to the ranch house. Junior staggered making the swing but gathered himself gallantly for the last run. The voices of the cowboys were distinct now. “Yeeow! Yippee! Yahoo! Swing, you bastards!”

  Then he was in sight of the action. He could see Francisco and Moseby and the damn kid, of course, out in the yard, guns in their hands.

  Sam rode around the barn and flung himself off the horse with his rifle ready. The riders—Casey, Dobey, Morgan, and Callahan—came driving in on their hardy ponies. Still the herd came, led by a leathery, old, dun-colored steer.

  There was a shot. The panicked leader went down, his horns digging dirt. Pit Pickens rode into the scene. He went directly to the fallen steer and began firing over the heads of the charging herd.

  Stubby swung away from the cowboys and into line with Pit. It was suicide, Sam thought, his heart sinking. He leveled his rifle and began firing. Steers fell. For an instant, it seemed the racing herd would run over both Pit and Stubby.

  Suddenly everyone was shooting. The cowboys shrilled their cries to the sky. Sam killed another of the middle cows.

  The herd split. Whooping, the riders were upon them, chivying them each way so that they missed the buildings. It was a narrow squeak. Pit’s horse stumbled. Sam began to run, emptying the chamber of the rifle into the air. Stubby reined around. Sam dropped his gun and dove for the fallen old man. He managed to cover Pit with his body.

  Cows and horses thundered, but, true to legend, their feet evaded the fallen men.

  In minutes, cattle and cowboys were gone, past the house, racing through the garden, headed for distant places.

  Stubby swung down from his exhausted pony. Sam got to his knees and peered anxiously at Pickens. Stubby joined him as Francisco, Moseby, and the kid all came running across the yard, past the corral, Pit said faintly, “Allus knew you could split ’em, if you tried hard enough.”

  Sam said, “Best get him into the bunkhouse.”

  “There’s a door off its hinges. I’ll get it,” Francisco volunteered.

  “Lemme alone,” Pit said. “In a minute I’ll get up and do a jig for you all.”

  “Not today you won’t,” Sam told him. “You’re a mite busted up, old friend.”

  “Well, we sure busted the gawdamn stampede, now, didn’t we?” He grinned up at them. Blood from the corner of his mouth traced the lines of his face.

  They lifted the door gingerly as Pit winced. Before they could move, Matilda burst from the door. “Here now, you damn men, you git him in the house so’s I can see to him, along with that Ranger man. Lawd awmighty, it don’t seem white folks got a lick of sense. ’Specially men.” She fumed and fussed, following and bossing them. “All comes from pridefulness, Pit Pickens,” she growled. “Thinkin’ you know more and ride better’n anybody. Gittin’ yoself broke up like I ain’t got enough to do without havin’ to tend you.”

  She artfully steered the carrying committee into the big front room, saying, “Put him down on that settee there,” first covering it with a soft blanket that she seemed to produce from nowhere in particular.

  Sam grinned to see the kid hanging almost on Matilda’s skirts as the cook sashayed into the kitchen to get her bag of remedies, and then returned, crying, “Now, whereat’s he hurt? You folks get away now. Lemme see to ’im.” Sam studied the kid, right behind Matilda, and thought she had an unfamiliar green cast. ’Bout time, he thought, glad to see her acting more like a girl.

  He pulled Stubby out of the nurses’ way. Stubby shook his head, looking like he’d been kicked by a mule.

  “What is it, Sam? Could you tell?” His eyes filled with tears.

  “Looks like his leg, at least. And he had a hell of a fall. I sure hope that horse didn’t step on him.”

  Matilda glared up at him. “I’ll find out. Ain’t you people got nothin’ better ta do than git in my way? I’ll find out what’s wrong with him.”

  Moseby took the good arm of a transfixed Francisco and led him toward the kitchen. Looking back over his shoulder, the cowboy muttered, “Looks like a damn hospital, don’t it? Reckon we’re all lucky to be alive.”

  “There’s nobody like Pit for doin’,” Stubby said. “I purely can’t do without him. Mary loves the old goat, too.”

  The Ranger, Keen, stirred on the pallet Matilda had made for him on the floor. He looked around wildly. “What—Who—?” He shook
his head.

  “Get that man some water.” Matilda gestured to the kid. “Mistah Jones an’ Mistah Stubby, git on out of here.”

  Stubby obeyed, moving trancelike into the kitchen where he stopped, musing on what to do next. His concern for Pit had momentarily overcome his concern over Duffy’s next move, which they knew was coming.

  Sam noticed that the kid had disappeared again, probably to check on Mary, he thought to himself. From the door, he studied Matilda’s ministrations carefully.

  She glanced at Sam, reached into her bag, and took out a large pair of sharp shears. “Seems like you got a bit more sense’n some I’ve seen around here.” She frowned at Pit, who watched her silently.

  “Seen a lot more’n most,” Sam said. “That’s some bag of possibles you’ve got there.”

  “Possibles?” Matilda snorted. “‘Possibles,’ huh? That’s mountainy man talk,” she said as she cut Pit’s clothing to determine the damage. “You’re too young for talk like that.” She held her mouth pursed as if to gentle her touch. Pit sighed and closed his eyes.

  Sam smiled at her derision. “I’ve met a few mountain men in my time. How’s the Ranger coming?”

  “He comin’ fair. Better than he look.”

  “How come you doctor so fine?”

  “When I was South, I was house slave to a doctor man. Good man, treated me fine. I was young then.”

  “Runaway?”

  She gave him a sharp glance, then smiled and nodded. “There was a young buck. We took off on a night like we just had here.”

  “What happened to your man?”

  “He left me for a light-skin gal.” She shrugged and laughed. “Don’t make no matter. I like what I got here.”

  “They’re lucky to have you.”

  “I couldn’t save the missus’s other babies.” Her mouth drooped. “They want this one real bad.” She shot a look upstairs, but said no more.

  “Third time is lucky.” Sam spoke offhandedly, glancing at Keen, who was stirring. Pit lost consciousness. Matilda had cut his shirt away and was working on the waistband of his Levis.

  Sam said, “Matilda, there’s still a lot of trouble coming tonight.”

  “Duffy,” she said, nodding. “Looks like Pit’s stove-in. I don’t like that bleedin’ at the mouth. Sure hope there ain’t no rib stuck in his lung.”

  “We do need the town doctor, don’t we?”

  Keeping her attention firmly on Pit, Matilda said softly, “We gonna need him more befo’ this night is over, Mistah Jones, ain’t we?”

  Sam nodded, trying to think of a way to get the help he knew was needed, then shook his head. “Just have to do the best we can, Matilda.”

  He walked softly through the kitchen and stepped outside, so as not to disturb Matilda anymore.

  The silence after all the hubbub was unreal. He took a deep breath of the almost dawn air. He had no awareness of needing sleep; the juices were flowing in a rapid stream. He scanned all points of the compass. There was neither sight nor sound of the forces he knew were arrayed out there.

  He had to discuss strategy with Stubby and Moseby. He believed Duffy would make an attack in force sooner or later, and was thankful that Stubby had built in stone. Sam was also thankful that Matilda had made them place their casualties inside. He knew the cowboys would be gone far too long to be of help.

  Behind him, Matilda bustled through the kitchen, calling over her shoulder to Sam, “Got to have more blankets.” She disappeared into the bunkhouse.

  Sam paced, resuming his train of thought. There was Matilda to be thankful for, for sure. There was Moseby, the southern gentleman, with his shooting skills. There was the fact that the Ranger and Pit still lived.

  Against these assets he weighed the power of Duffy and the possibility that the Comanches might still attack.

  His pacing brought him near the bunkhouse. His heightened senses took him a step closer, and a slight sound sent him into action. He dove for the door. As he slammed through it, he saw Matilda backed into a corner. Looming over was the figure of a man, long knife upraised to strike.

  As always, without conscious thought, Sam’s Colt jumped into his hand, and his finger pressed the trigger. The man dropped, head-shot.

  Matilda turned, lifting an arm holding blankets. In the other hand, she was firmly grasping a hunting knife snatched from Francisco’s bunk.

  She looked at the body on the floor and shook her head regretfully. She said, “Mistah Jones, I’m plumb sorry you had to do that. I was jus’ about ta tear out his guts.”

  “Who in tarnation is he?”

  “Fielder,” she said. “He the man tried to git me afore. Mr. Stone fired him an’ he went to Duffy.”

  “I remember.” Sam blew smoke from his gun barrel and inserted a bullet. He came close to bitter laughter at his own expense. Always the hero, he thought, and he need not have killed this one with a chancy head shot. The onus could have been Matilda’s.

  He took hold of the man’s worn-down boot heels and dragged him from the bunkhouse. The wound was in his right temple. There was little blood. He pulled the body into a clump of spindly shrubbery, which partially concealed it. There would be no time for burial today.

  Matilda thrust a flask into his hand. “Here, you need this, Mistah Jones.” The flask came from her ample pocket. It was good whiskey. “You don’t think on that Fielder now, he never was no good.” She mused, “What goes ’round, comes ’round. You don’t think on him now, you hear.”

  “I think on ’em, Matilda. All of them.”

  “I reckon. Take another swig.”

  After taking a long pull from the flask, Sam said thoughtfully, “That man that left you was the biggest damn fool that ever walked.”

  “Him? Well, that high yellow woman stabbed him one night in El Paso. Killed him dead. Took his poke an’ opened a whorehouse. Like I said to you befo’, what goes ’round, comes ’round.”

  Before Sam could answer, she was gone with a swish of her skirts.

  As he saw it now, the Crooked S had himself, Stubby, Moseby, and one-armed Francisco, who had stood goggle-eyed during the stampede. Them, two women, one about to give birth, and that maverick kid, who didn’t yet know who the hell she was.

  He opened the kitchen door to be confronted by the kid in her new feminine garb. She stood with surprisingly dainty hands on her hips, confronting him with a steady stare.

  He wondered again at the suddenness of this child. “Kid, if you want to tell me about it before the shootin’ starts, you better spit it out now.”

  “Why, you know what I was thinkin’ of.” Her great eyes opened even wider.

  “Nope. Just what I’m thinkin’ of. Some of us might not get any older than we are today. Best we should know each other.”

  She glanced at the sleeping men and said softly, “I wouldn’t tell this to nobody else in the world. The minute you grabbed me away from those boys in Bowville, I knew.”

  Sam waited, knowing that if he spoke she would break for cover again, and he needed to know it all.

  “You call me a kid,” she continued, still pasted to the wall for courage. “I’m no kid. I’m seventeen years old. My father’s name was Maxwell Murgatroyd. My name’s Maxine. My father owned a fine spread in Mexico. He was killed and, by God, I know who killed him. It was Duffy.” The words tumbled out so fast that Sam could not react before she continued.

  “I know, Sam. You understand ... I know.” Her voice rose as though she did not expect him to believe her, but she went on anyway, sounding more and more like an angry, frightened, little kid. “An old vaquero who worked for my father told me the whole thing. You see, he told me the whole thing, and then he went and died before I could do anything about it.” She stopped and took a short, ragged breath. “My mother, she was a weak woman. Duffy courted her and she married him, she married him, Sam.” It had taken almost everything she had to get this out. She pressed a small, clenched fist against her mouth to stop the flow of words. S
he fought back the tears.

  “Is that where he got his start with money?” Sam asked.

  “That, and murder and robbery. He scared my mom to death. He beat her. Then—then …” She chewed her lower lip. “He went after me.”

  Sam started. “How old were you, for God’s sake?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “The son of a—So you ran away.”

  “First I took some money out of the safe, my pop’s safe—my pop’s money. Then I took a horse and came over the border. I was raised on a ranch. I could scrounge around. Duffy moved to Bowville and stole Stubby’s saloon. I kept track. I knew ... What I wanted was to blow him away. I still do, Sam. I’ve earned that, you know I have.” She paused for breath.

  Sam nodded. “I see. All that, and you had to play a boy to keep the men off you.”

  “You’re damn well right. I never saw the man …” She paused, flushed, and looked away. “Then you came along and I knew about the Stones and the Crooked S, and I just did what seemed best ... An’ now I’m here and Duffy’s got an army out there,” she finished miserably, her eyes beseeching Sam to understand, to help.

  Sam said gravely, not looking at her, “He’s got a lot more to answer for than I reckoned. Maxine? That’s a nice name. I got a lady named Renee back in Sunrise who’d really like to meet you.”

  “I know about her,” Maxine flared. “I don’t need her. Just you and Mary and Matilda, that’s all.”

  “Everybody needs friends,” he answered. “All the friends they can get. Seventeen ain’t no kid, you’re right about that. And you sure do know a lot. But friends is another matter.”

  “Well, Duffy’s got to be stopped.”

  “Right again.”

  “He wants to get hold of me. He wants to kill you and take Stubby’s ranch and all ...” She choked on the thought.

  Sam steered her gingerly by the elbow. “We got to eat somethin’,” he said. “We got to eat and calm down and start watchin’ and listenin’ and prayin’ that the cowboys get back. It’s going to be sudden. These things always are.”