“You the hombre who rousted my men?”
“Who are you?” Sam did not stop eating; his voice was mild.
“I’m Pat Duffy.”
Sam shook his head. “Cuts no ice with me.”
“That was my land you was on, me buckaroo.” There was a trace of brogue in Duffy’s intonation.
“That was a public road,” Sam said, his voice growing colder.
“I wanna know who comes my way,” said Duffy. “I got property to protect. You understand, me buckaroo?”
In the background, the girls giggled; Simon stood hunched; the blond gunman and the dark-haired one spread apart. Keen sat with bent shoulders concealing his tiny badge and grinned at Sam. Antonio retreated to the kitchen door.
Sam sighed, then leaned back and looked up at Duffy. “In the first place, I ain’t your buckaroo. In the second place, I don’t like the way you come at a feller. In the third place, I don’t think you or your mob, there, are tough enough to do anything about me or my ways. You savvy, me Irish spalpeen?”
For a moment it seemed Duffy would swell up and burst on the spot. The veins in his neck stood out like whipcord. His face turned fiery red. As he began to roar, Keen suddenly stood up and faced him, still grinning.
Keen said, “Seems to me you got a problem here, Mr. Duffy.”
Light caught the Ranger badge. Duffy blinked. His choler diminished, little by little. He seemed to dwindle an inch or so. He swallowed. He managed a sickly grin.
“Texas Ranger, is it, now? A friend of this, uh, gent?”
“We’re acquainted.”
“He a Ranger, too?”
“Nope. He’s a man entitled to travel the public road. Like he says.”
“Well ... I see what you mean, Ranger.” Duffy was a man who knew which side his bread was buttered on. “However, I have been threatened. There’s a problem, y’see. Nothing the law would be interested in. Just ... problems.”
“We’ve heard,” said Keen.
“Ye can’t believe all ye hear, now can ye?” Duffy essayed a laugh. “It’s a small thing, for true.”
Sam was looking out the window, allowing the Ranger to carry on. Again he saw the white face of the urchin amidst a crowd of curious onlookers who had followed Duffy and his coterie. As soon as he made eye contact, the kid vanished into the background.
“There’s a man missing,” said Keen. “Name of Charlie Downs. People have been asking for him.”
Sam said, “Charlie Downs is dead up in Sunrise.”
“That’s one of Stubby Stone’s men,” said Duffy virtuously.
“One of your men is also missing,” Keen said. “Name of Buck Tinsley.”
Sam told them, “Tinsley died after he shot Charlie Downs. Up in Sunrise.” It had to come out in the open, and this seemed as good a time as any with the Ranger present. “Glad to know Tinsley’s name. For the headstone on Boot Hill.”
“So you’re Cemetery Jones!” The words burst, uncontrolled, from Pat Duffy.
The gunmen now froze. Simon’s eyes rolled. Keen stepped back, giving himself elbow room.
Sam said, “People don’t call me that to my face more’n once.” He shoved back his chair. Everyone jumped a trifle. The girls squeaked and edged toward the exit.
Pat Duffy swallowed. “Uh, no offense.”
“You seem to have knowledge of how come Downs and Tinsley were out of town,” said Keen, shaking his head. “Knew Mr. Jones had something to do with their whereabouts. That’s not what you indicated.”
Duffy visibly pulled himself together. His natural color returned, and his voice lowered, more under control. “If you gentlemen have got anything to charge me with, tell me.”
Keen said, “If there was a charge, I wouldn’t be standin’ here jawin’ with you, Mr. Duffy. Mr. Jones is not at present a lawman. If I were you, I’d go about my business. Easy-like.”
Duffy seemed about to speak, then smiled thinly and waved a hand. The girls, the gunners, and Simon went out into the street.
Duffy said, “The drinks are on me if you care to partake, gentlemen. Right across the street.”
He bowed and followed his little group. Keen sat down and attacked the apple pie. Sam followed suit. Antonio came out of the kitchen and stared out the window as the crowd dispersed.
“Hope they don’t come back for supper,” he said.
“I reckon they’ll lay low for a bit,” said Keen. “We had a sorta wet-blanket effect on ’em, wouldn’t you say?”
“He’s got a bug in his ear, all right,” Sam said. “He knows that I’m on to the fact he sent Tinsley after Downs. Maybe he don’t know Downs was carryin’ a message for me. He can guess that, though, seein’ I’m here.”
“Stone sent for help?”
“Yup.”
“Stone is no little blue wildflower.”
“No.”
Keen looked off for a moment. Then he said, “I’ve been with the Rangers a long while, and my pappy before me. Seems there was a rangdoodle in Bowville. Seems like you owe Stubby Stone.”
“Could be.”
“Too bad.”
“Pardon?”
“I was kinda hopin’ we could swing in together.”
“You mean together—but separate,” Sam said.
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Still might do.”
“Doubtful. You’ll excuse me, but you are Cemetery Jones. I got a captain; he’s persnickety. You’re a real sudden man.”
Sam shook his head. “It’s a cross to bear, friend. They hang a name on you.”
“I saw how cool you were just now.” There was true sympathy in the man’s voice. “I know those jaspers—Jackson, the yella-haired one; Magrew, the most dangerous. Simon, he’s the goat, kisses Duffy’s behind, which needs a lot of kissin’, I figure. There’s a passel of hard cases on Duffy’s spread. Stone can’t fight ’em no how. Duffy ’bout owns the town. Took it over piece by piece. Had a wife, a widow he married for her ranch, they say. Got connections way down in Mexico. That’s what we know.” He paused for breath. “I hadn’t oughta be tellin’ you all this, but I like your style.”
“I appreciate it,” said Sam. He had known or guessed most of it, but every little bit might help. “You met Mrs. Stone?”
“Haven’t met her. I’ve been layin’ low as best I could. Nothin’ to go on.”
“I see. Takes time and patience when you’re wearin’ a badge.”
“True.”
“Well, I better be moseyin’ along. You finished with the pie?”
“Uh-huh.”
Sam took the rest and inserted it in the package of food Antonio had ready for him. He paused beside Keen and said, “It was right good meetin’ you.”
“Convenient, too.” The Ranger’s grin reappeared, and they shook hands. “Hasta la vista!”
Sam went out onto the street but not without taking slanting glances to make certain that the coast was clear. People walked widdershins around him, due no doubt to the scene witnessed by so many who had peered into the restaurant window. He had the frontiersman’s instinct that he was being followed—instinct? Suspicion? He was a bit wound up. He carried the parcel of food in his left hand, leaving his right free and near to the butt of the Colt .44.
He entered the hotel and went up the stairs to his room on the second floor, which faced the front. He drew the shade against the light from the street. Dusk was turning into night; Duffy’s saloon was loud and bright. Sam removed his shirt and used the water basin, then dumped the water into the chamber pot. He removed his gun belt, took the gun from it, and placed it on the bed before doffing his boots. The door was on a dead bolt. There was an awning below the window, so he opened it at the top, setting a trap with a balanced water tumbler in case of an attempt to enter or even to tamper with the drawn shade. Stretching out on his back, he reviewed the afternoon and evening. The white face of the maverick kid would not go away.
He had been on the frontier at fourteen. He was
taller and stronger than the kid who called himself Mac. Sam had carried water, hay, straw—whatever they gave him to tote. He had learned in various and sundry ways to protect himself, always staying within himself, keeping his own counsel. He had gone up the trail with the herds, learning, listening, keeping out from underfoot, practicing with his ever-quick hands as he found out the way to stay alive in the harshness of the West.
He had known Indians, lived with Apaches. He had seen what happened to the Indian tribes, how they were victimized and what vengeance they had taken. He had formed his own hard opinions and had set up his code: Be quiet, be sure, be brave, be loyal. Other men wore notches on their gun butts; Sam wore them on his soul ever since the day the cowboy in Dodge had called him and he had killed the man and two of his kin.
His little song ran through his head. “A man can kill another man/And still be on the level/ But woe and shame will come to him who sells out to the devil.”
There was music to the words, his own music. He had a feeling for simple tunes, which reminded him of Renee Hart. This was not a time to think of Renee, whom he loved and who loved him, each in their fashion. They each had a past that they did not care to dwell upon. They needed one another in certain ways, and that was enough for now.
He had for many years thought himself not capable of loving a woman, truly loving, down to his boots. As Renee knew and pointed out, neither of them was ready to settle down into domesticity. Both of them had the past lurking in deep shadows, and neither was anxious to shed light upon that darkness. Thus they loved in the present, for the present. Her music, that strange talent that produced classical sounds he could hear and enjoy but not fully understand, satisfied his craving for he knew not what.
There was a scratching at his door. He came wide awake and picked up his gun. He crossed the room, placed himself alongside the entry, and asked, “Who’s there?”
“Me, Mac,” came the strange, hoarse little voice.
He opened the door. The kid came into the room like a shadow in the dimness, standing there, looking solemnly at him.
“Now what the hell?” Sam demanded. “How did you get up here?”
“They’ll be layin’ for you.” The kid did not make a move, yet he was, as always, seemingly prepared for flight.
Sam relaxed. “I sort of knowed. Here, on the table. Food.”
Mac went to it, sidling over, not taking his eyes off Sam. “Saw you get it from Antonio.”
“So eat it.”
The kid did so, not in haste as though starving but rather delicately, wiping fingers and chewing slowly. Sam sat on the bed and watched. Silence persisted in the room.
When Mac had finished, he asked, “Can I sleep on the floor?”
“Your pony okay?”
“Where would I be without him?” There seemed never to be a straight answer.
“There’s some water left. Wash up and you can crawl in with me if you don’t snore or kick around or anything.”
“The floor. Maybe a blanket?”
“Whatever you say. You’re a wild one, you know that? Sneakin’ around like an Apache. Followin’ me, ain’t you?” Sam said.
“Any harm done?”
“Not the point. Kid like you, there’s danger out there.”
“I get along.”
“I see that. Where are you from and what are you up to, Mac?”
“Come from nowhere. Up to what happens.”
“You saved me a razzle-dazzle back yonder. I’m grateful.”
“You just fed me,” Mac said.
“Figured you’d be around.”
“You want to get to the Crooked S. You’re who you are.”
“Yup. I’m who I am.”
“I’m who I am.”
“That Ranger. You know him?”
“Nope.”
“But you know why he’s hereabouts,” Sam asked.
“Who don’t? Range war.”
“Duffy against Stone.”
The kid nodded, finished the last crumb, then went to the basin, washed, wiped his hands. His every move was meticulous; there was feline grace about him. He looked at the bed and Sam peeled off one of the blankets.
“Take off some clothes, be comfortable,” Sam urged. The kid doffed a loose jacket. Articles in the pockets clinked. He made a pillow of it and skillfully folded the blanket across the threshold of the door.
Sam protested, “Hey, you ain’t no hound dog, guardin’ the portal.”
“Don’t mean to be. Still, never can tell.” The kid’s shotgun stood where he had placed it upon entering. He lay down.
“Well, you sure ain’t a bundle of laughs,” Sam said. “Have a good night.”
Sam slipped out of his pants and began to remove his lightweight longjohns but hesitated. The kid’s wide eyes remained on him. He liked to sleep nude on a warm night, but there was convention to be observed. He crawled beneath the remaining thin blanket.
He said, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Been bit by worse,” said the kid. The big eyes did not waver.
“Hangin’ around the way you do, anything could bite you to bits.” Sam was already sleepy.
There was noise from without but weariness took hold. Sam drifted off thinking of Pat Duffy, that odd Irishman in the unmatched, unbecoming Mexican getup. There was something peculiar about Duffy. He would have to learn just what.
He dreamed of Renee, which was not unusual. He turned, one eye open, still in the maze of slumber. The wide eyes were still upon him. They glistened in the dimness. No wonder, he thought. A maverick kid wandering around, unwilling or unable to talk, to get it out. A handy kid, though, very handy. That was another puzzle to put together.
Chapter Three
Stubby Stone awoke at dawn. He leaned over and kissed his wife, very softly so as not to rouse her. He slipped into a shirt and jeans and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen with his boots in his hand. He donned them, then opened the side door and inhaled the brisk air. It would be hot later, but later was a time for worriment. Now all he surveyed was peaceful.
He was a short man, almost as wide as he was tall. His belly was flat and his bowlegs sturdy. His head was rather small, his ears close set, his face perfectly formed, as handsome as a Greek statue’s. He was quite blond, his skin clear, his gray eyes narrow and sharp.
He went back into the kitchen and shaved at the sink. He was proud of his good looks, of the attention he paid his appearance. He liked to think it was why he had won Mary.
He thought of Sam Jones then and winced, nicking himself with the razor. It had been a dirty trick to play on a friend, he had never denied it to himself. He had wanted Mary that bad. Now she was pregnant again. She had lost two. She was in her ninth month, and the trouble with Pat Duffy wasn’t doing her any good. They weren’t getting any younger and they had wanted children right from the start. It didn’t seem fair, the way they loved each other.
He returned to the door. Pit Pickens was going into the henhouse to gather eggs. Pit had been with Stubby since the days when he had owned the saloon. No more loyal man ever lived, he reflected. At seventy years old, he was as spry as a youngster and as fast with a gun. Not as fast as Sam, but quicker than Stubby himself was.
He took his gun belt down from a peg and strapped it on. He carried a short-barreled .38 because it was easier to draw, considering his short arms. He wore it high and hated wearing it at all. Were it not for Duffy ... He went out to greet Pit.
Pickens was the tallest man in the county. He was thin and gnarled and homely. His grin was wide on his tanned, lined face. He said, “The red hen’s settin’. Got about two dozen brown ones, though, from them Hampshire reds.”
“Browns are good. Bigger yolks.”
Pit said, “The boys’ll be stirrin’. I better get in the kitchen.”
“Seems so.” Pit was a great cook, an enormous help to Mary. “You think Sam’s comin’?
Pit’s grin faded. “We could plumb use Sam.”
“He’ll be along.” Stubby had his doubts, though. Sam wasn’t one to forget. On the other hand, there had been the shootout. It was a gamble, a flip of the coin. It depended on which seemed more important to him, and Stubby could hold no rancor if it was Mary that Sam counted first.
He turned and surveyed his house. He had built it well, importing stone, using cement and hard wood. He’d had the money then, before he had lost the saloon. He cursed himself again as he did everyday for the gambling fever that had betrayed him. It had been a weakness, and he was paying for it. He was certain he had been hornswoggled, but there was not a shred of evidence to prove it. The full house had been ace high, his best hand of the evening.
Duffy had been so arrogant and Stubby had wanted desperately to take him down a peg ... He made himself stop thinking on it.
He had a fine spread. He had a herd of longhorns to drive to the rails; he had milk cows and a garden. The soil along the Pecos River was fertile; he could live here and enjoy life if it wasn’t for that damned Duffy and his cow-stealing bunch. He had strung barbed wire, but he hadn’t the men to patrol it and any fool with wire cutters could tear it down.
The men came straggling in from the bunkhouse: Carey, Dobey, and Morgan. Patrolling the herd were Francisco and Callahan. There weren’t enough of them to make a fight against the gunmen hired by Duffy. They were also young and inexperienced; three older hands had quit when the war loomed. One, Fielder, had gone over to Duffy. That was bad. Fielder, a mealy-mouth from the north, was too well acquainted with the geography and the strengths and weaknesses of the Crooked S.
Stubby went into the big ranch kitchen. Mary was seated at the end of the long table. Pickens was at the stove, which he had started before daylight, busy stirring and ladling. There were plenty of good victuals, and when the men washed and filed in, everything seemed peaceful and in order.
“How you feel this mornin’?” Stubby asked his wife.
“Like yesterday.” She had a sweet smile for them all. “Any sign of Sam?”
“Not yet. He’ll be here, never you fret.”
“Oh, yes,” she said calmly. “Sam will be here.” There was no need to reassure Mary. She had faith. She could forgive, possibly even forget. She awoke with a smile each morning, even though she was never comfortable bearing a child. Time had placed its mark on her; ranch life was hard on all women, but she retained a serene attitude. Stubby was sometimes in awe of her.
Cemetery Jones 2 Page 3
