Cemetery Jones 5

by William R. Cox

  “Pa, I wasn’t armed!”

  “The hell you wasn’t. You kin lie to the whole town of Tombstone and git away with it, but you cain’t lie to me. I ain’t never seen you go into town ’thout a gun your whole grown-up life.”

  His bitter glare flashed rage from one son to the other.

  “You yella-livered bloodless cowards!”

  Ike whined, “Pa, I couldn’t he’p it. They’d o’ kilt me sure.”

  “Better that than what you done,” the old man said. He fumbled at the holster at his hip. He had to use both hands to extract the old army Colt from it.

  He cocked the revolver and aimed it at Ike’s face.

  Ike recoiled.

  The old man shifted his aim to Phin.

  Phin glared back at him resentfully. “I had a chance to get on a horse. I took it. I got nothin’ to ’pologize for, Old Man. took my chances fair ’n square. Them others kin do the same. Likely most of ’em be all right.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  “Go to hell, you old bastard.” Phin slammed out of the place.

  Ike hesitated.

  The old man rasped, “Git outta my sight ’fore I do the job on you that Wyatt Earp shoulda done. Go on—git! Or so he’p ne I’ll kill you myse’f!”

  Ike fled the room. The door slammed fearfully behind him.

  The old man looked around at the squalor of the dirt-floored room that was his home.

  A life of hard fighting, and this was what he had to show For it. A shack, a spavined herd of stolen cattle, a twenty-year-old Colt revolver, a savage pain in his hip, two cowardly surviving sons and a third, the only one with any guts, lying lead in the Tombstone undertaker’s parlor.

  Old Man Clanton had no tears. He cocked the revolver and put its muzzle in his mouth. Closed his lips on the cold steel, touched his tongue to the muzzle.

  No, by God. Too many Goddamn cowards in this family already.

  He withdrew the gun from his mouth and stared dismally at it.

  Ain’t no difference what hand you’re dealt. You play it out.

  He looked up in momentary defiance. But then the pride drained out of him and he slumped back on the pallet.

  The dreams of glory were ended. There was nothing ahead now. Nothing but a slow withering and dying, like a weed on the desert in hot summer drought.

  Doc Holliday was in a good mood, for a change. Maybe it had something to do with the gun battle outside the corral. Down at the undertaker’s, Brocius and some of the other cowboy fools had hung up a sign above the coffins of Billy Clanton and the McLowery brothers—MURDERED IN THE STREETS OF TOMBSTONE—but it only elicited Doc’s grin of brash amusement. The bastards had been taught a lesson they wouldn’t soon forget, he reckoned.

  He went along to the Occidental and got the attention of the barkeep. “Well?”

  “Had a telegraph wire from down to Agua Prieta. The poker game’s finished. Masterson won all the money. But him and Ringo both rode out of town alive, separate. So I reckon you lose your hundred-dollar bet, Doc.”

  All of a sudden Doc’s mood turned sour.

  The barkeep saw the change in his expression. “Now I’m just the messenger, Doc. Ain’t my fault they didn’t kill each other.”

  “I guess it’s not,” Doc allowed, grudgingly. “But I am fit to be tied.”

  “Only money, Doc. Have a drink on the house.”

  “Well, hell,” said Doc Holliday, “why not.”

  Riding down off the Chiricahua Mountains in the chill morning sun, Sam and Luke kept a careful eye on their back trail. No telling when Victorio’s marauders—or Clanton’s vicious cowboys—might turn up.

  But when trouble came, it wasn’t from behind.

  At first they were uncertain of any danger. Two horsemen were visible, far out on the arid plain, traveling northwest. Coming their way.

  “No tellin’ if they be friend or foe,” Luke said, “but one thing’s sure. If we can see them, they can see us. They know we’re here.”

  “Might as well keep goin’,” Sam agreed. In any event, he was not ready to be deflected from his intended course by mere possibility. Sensible caution was one thing; cowardice was another.

  They came down through the rock-strewn foothills. The advancing riders far ahead were intermittently visible as Sam and Luke made their way across the switchbacking slopes.

  By now, he thought, with luck Pacheco and his little worn-out band would be well on their way north toward the lush green White Mountains of the new Apache reservation.

  At noon Sam and Luke came across a low crest studded with scrubby growths of manzanita and piñon. The two advancing horsemen were much closer now—a mile away and closing.

  Sam said, “Not Indians, anyway. White men.”

  “You always did have keen eyes.” Then a few minutes later, Luke interrupted the sound of clip-clopping hooves with a deceptively casual drawl: “I know that blue roan, ’less there’s more’n one like it in the Territory.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “John Ringo.”

  Sam made no answer—except to loosen his six-gun in its holster.

  They rode downslope, leaning back in their saddles to ease the load on their horses.

  The advancing horsemen came closer, grew larger and clearer. Luke said, “Yeah, that’s Ringo, all right. And Bull Baxter with him.”

  “Bull Baxter,” Sam said. “That’s the one thinks he’s tougher’n steel?”

  “That’s the one. They both of ’em ride with Old Man Clanton, off and on. You ain’t never actually met up with Ringo face-to-face, have you?”

  “Never have.”

  “Well,” Luke said drily, “you’re about to.”

  Sam saw it out of the side of his vision when Luke eased his coat back to place the butt of his revolver within easy reach.

  By now the two horsemen had come to the edge of a creek that flowed out of a canyon just to Sam’s right. They had dismounted beside a solitary sycamore tree to water their animals.

  The two cowboys stood up and turned to face their way.

  It was plain they had seen Sam and Luke.

  And it was likely they had recognized them, too.

  Luke said, “That there’s Turkey Creek. Good clean water.”

  Sam grunted.

  “Sam, we could still ride around this. ”

  “That what you want to do?”

  Luke thought about it. “I never believed in lookin’ for trouble.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “But I’ll be damned if I’ll let those two scare me away from the creek. These horses are thirsty.”

  Sam said, “Ringo’s been wantin’ to meet me for a long time.”

  “How about you? You been hankerin’ to meet him?”

  “Can’t say as I have; can’t say as I haven’t, either. You hear enough about a man, you get curious about him.”

  “Hear him tell it, the only reason he wants to meet you is to turn you inside out.”

  Sam nodded slowly. “Well, I got no fight with him. Maybe I can talk to him. Make friends. Better that than wakin’ up every mornin’ waitin’ for him to show up and choose me out.”

  Luke said, “Ain’t no question Ringo’s fast. You know that. He’s fast, and he ain’t got no compunctions at all.”

  “They say he’s smart.”

  “Real intelligent. Educated and all. It don’t make him sane.”

  “Sane or not, if he’s as smart as they say he is, maybe I can reason with him—make sense to him.”

  “You can try,” Luke said in a dismal tone. “Listen—if he downs you, I’ll kill him.”

  “No. Not unless he goes for you, too. You just keep an eye on Bull Baxter.”

  “Glad to, partner.”

  The horses carried them inexorably forward. Ringo and Baxter were standing down there, watching them, waiting.

  Sam and Luke didn’t speak as they rode on steadily toward the creek.

  Sam realized there was one more thing Lu
ke hadn’t mentioned. If it should come to a fight, and Sam should kill Ringo it would make life pretty damn hard on Sam. He already had more of a reputation than any man needed. If he came to be known as the man who had outdrawn and killed John Ringo then every crazy galoot west of St. Louis would be looking to try him on for size.

  He’d get no peace at all. And sooner or later one of them would kill him.

  With that cheerless thought, he lifted the horse to a trot, then a canter, wanting to get this over with.

  By the time he reached the creek, Luke had caught up and was riding shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

  Good old Luke. Face high, unblinking. Facing two deadly enemies at the side of his friend without ever hesitating.

  Luke Short—truly a man to ride the river with.

  John Ringo stood in the shade of the sycamore tree, shoulder propped against its bole. He looked lazy, slit-eyed. His hat was tipped far back, exposing a half-bald scalp. He was surprisingly ordinary in appearance. An unprepossessing man.

  Sam pulled his horse off a bit toward the east, so that he could face Ringo without the sun in his eyes. He said, by way of greeting, “Gents.” With his left hand he touched his hat brim.

  Bull Baxter stood off to one side, out in full sunlight. He was chewing on a long blade of prairie grass. It dangled from the corner of his mouth. “Howdy, Luke.”

  “Bull. Mind if we water our horses here?”

  Baxter said, “Reckon it’s public water. Go ahead—step down.” He grinned so widely that the blade of grass fell from his mouth.

  Luke dismounted slowly, never taking his eyes off Baxter, and let go of his horse. The animal trotted to the bank of the stream and put its head down to nuzzle the water.

  Sam was still on horseback. The etiquette of the range dictated that it wouldn’t do to dismount without an invitation.

  The man beneath the tree straightened up and took a step away from the trunk. He was still in shadow, however. It gave him an advantage, made him a less easy target. He said, “You can get off your horse. I like eyes at a level.”

  “Much obliged.” Sam swung his leg over the saddle horn and slid to the ground, facing Ringo.

  The man in the shade had a hollow, funereal voice. “Cemetery Jones. I read those dime novels.”

  “That’s a moniker I’m not partial to.”

  “Maybe. But I hear you earned it. I hear you’re the man who says he’s faster than John Ringo.”

  “I’ve never made any such claim. Nor intend to.”

  “Others been making it for you. Amounts to the same thing. I expect you know I’m Ringo.”

  Sam said, “I know who you are. I’ve got nothin’ against you, and I’ve got nothin’ to prove. Now I can’t answer for what other people say. You know that.”

  “Trying to weasel out.” Ringo sneered. “You hear that, Bull?”

  “I hear,” said Bull Baxter.

  Perhaps Ringo’s taunt was designed to distract Sam’s attention toward Baxter. Sam didn’t fall for it. Keeping his full attention on Ringo, he said in an even voice, “No, sir. I could’ve ridden wide around you. Didn’t have to come in here straight up, face-to-face. I came because I reckoned you and me might git to know each other—who knows, we might even like each other. Listen—you and I never even met before. I got no quarrel with you. No reason not to be your friend.”

  “I don’t need any friends,” John Ringo intoned. “Never have.”

  “Then I’m sorry for you. I can’t think of anything much more valuable to a man than his friends.”

  Sam was aware, in the edge of his vision, that Luke Short and Bull Baxter were facing each other, not moving, not speaking. Just waiting.

  Tension vibrated in the silent air like a twang-taut wire.

  Sam said, “You’re a smart man—a reasonable man. Now I’m concedin’, here and now and in the presence of these witnesses, that you’re the faster gun.”

  Ringo took another pace forward. There was a strange trick of the light, just then. A band of daylight filtered between the sycamore branches, and for an instant it flickered brightly in reflection off Ringo’s eyes.

  Cold killer’s eyes.

  Ringo said, “Where the hell’s your pride, man?”

  “Pride goeth before a fall. Reckon I’d rather ride on out of here alive, and leave you to tell how you bluffed me down.”

  “I only bluff in poker games,” said Ringo. “I don’t want your friendship or your concession, Cemetery Jones. I want your life.”

  “I guess that’s the one thing you can’t have, Mr. Ringo.”

  Sam had told the truth. Never in his life had he claimed to be the fastest gun. There was an excellent chance Ringo was faster and more accurate. Certainly Ringo’s disposition was far deadlier than Sam’s. The killer had none of the qualms that restrained normal men. He could sting as blinding fast—and as thoughtlessly—as a scorpion.

  He never seemed to blink.

  In the back of his mind Sam Jones realized that, in all the dangerous, action-filled years of his life, this calm quiet interval was the most perilous moment he had ever faced.

  Luke Short said softly, “We can all just ride away from here, our separate ways. Whatta you say, Johnny?”

  “Those who are still alive will ride away,” Ringo replied, without moving his eyes.

  Luke pressed the point. “Ain’t no cause for violence here.”

  “There’s cause,” said John Ringo.

  Bull Baxter said, “How ’bout you, Luke? You ready to die with your friend?”

  “Never mind the bravado, Bull. I don’t want to fight you any more than Sam wants to fight Johnny.”

  “Then looks like we got ourselves two lily-livered cowards here,” Baxter said. Sam could hear the sneer in his voice.

  Then he had no more time for listening.

  Without warning, Ringo’s hand flashed toward the gun in his holster.

  Fast. Blinding fast. Faster than Sam had ever seen.

  Only one chance.

  As he drew his own six-gun, Sam kicked his feet out to the left, throwing himself hard to the right, dropping out of Ringo’s line of fire.

  And Ringo’s shot went somewhere above him ...

  And while Ringo’s thumb curled to cock the revolver for a second try, Sam had time to get his own gun out.

  His draw was more reflex than thought. Just before Sam’s shoulder hit the ground, he fired the single shot that snapped John Ringo’s head back and dropped him like a stone.

  Sam got his feet under him with difficulty. He stood up shaking. He held the revolver cocked and leveled at Ringo, but the man was down and motionless.

  Luke Short said, “Bull, drop your gun on the ground and ride on out of here. Ride down to Mexico and don’t come back.”

  When Sam glanced toward his friend he saw that Luke’s gun was out. Luke had used the distraction of Ringo’s draw to draw his own gun; now he had the drop on Bull Baxter.

  Baxter considered it. Finally he reached around left-handed, plucked the revolver slowly from its leather, and let it drop to the ground.

  Sam walked over to Ringo, knelt down, and examined him.

  Clear enough the bullet had killed Ringo instantly. He’d been dead before he fell. His revolver had fallen and skittered away, several yards down the creek bank.

  Luke was saying to Bull Baxter, “Step back.”

  Bull obeyed.

  Luke stepped forward and picked up the revolver that Bull had dropped. Luke punched it empty and tossed it back to Baxter, who caught it and looked at it in his hand. Curiosity changed his face. “What about my rifle on the horse there?”

  “Keep it. A man needs protection in wild country.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, Luke.” Baxter shook his head in a morose way. “I gotta tell ya, I ain’t had no luck at all since I come into this Tombstone country. Lost my stake to Ringo there in a poker game last night—and Ringo ended up losin’ everything to Bat Masterson. You believe that? Hell, looks like R
ingo’s luck run out all around. Me, I’d just as soon leave it at losin’ nothin’ more’n some money. Now you mention it, I don’t mind gittin’ out. Maybe my luck’ll turn, down across the border.”

  Watching it all, Sam was loading a fresh cartridge into his Colt. Luke glanced at him and then at the body of John Ringo, where it lay slumped in the shade of the sycamore near the creek bank.

  Luke said, “We’re doin’ you a favor, lettin’ you live, Bull.”

  “I know that. I owe you one.”

  “I’ll collect it right now, then. I want you to swear you’ll never breathe a word of what you saw here today.”

  “Huh?”

  “You don’t know who killed John Ringo. You don’t know how Ringo died. Hell, you don’t even know he’s dead. Last you saw of him, he was ridin’ toward Tombstone.”

  “I don’t get it,” Baxter said, “but if that’s what you want, Luke, that’s what you got. I never saw a thing.”

  Baxter gathered the reins of his horse and stepped aboard. He looked at Sam, touched his hat brim in an appreciative gesture to Luke Short, and rode away.

  Sam felt faint. He had to lean against the tree for support.

  Luke came over to him. “You hit?”

  “No.”

  “You all right?” Luke looked worried.

  “I will be. Gimme a minute.”

  “Yeah. You never had a closer one, Sam.”

  “Hope never to have one, either.” Sam heard the bark of his own strange involuntary little laugh. Nerves, he realized.

  Luke squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Then Sam watched Luke walk down the creek bank, pick up the revolver John Ringo had dropped, and bring it up into the shade of the sycamore.

  Luke placed Ringo’s gun near Ringo’s limp right hand. “Somebody’ll find him here. One shot fired from his .45. One .45-caliber hole in his head. Maybe they’ll think it was suicide. Or maybe they’ll call it person or persons unknown. Either way, nobody knows Sam Jones did this. Me, even with my big mouth, I’ll never breathe a word of what really happened here. All right, Sam?”

  Sam nodded his head. He couldn’t speak. He had to hope his eyes expressed the profound thanks he felt.