Cemetery Jones 2

by William R. Cox

“Then we will take them if we live.”

  The brave who was snaking his way to the rifles reached his goal. There was the sound of a shot. The bullet struck, not the Indian, but the stacked guns, toppling them. The Comanche rolled away, unhurt.

  Sam said, “You see? We could have killed him.” It was Moseby who had fired the shot, he knew. The southerner had not been boasting idly of his marksmanship.

  Soledad said, “You have killed many of us. We still have no fear. We must have horses.”

  The Comanche leader was weakening, Sam realized. There was a deal in the making. “If we give you good horses, will you go on the moon raid?”

  He could see Soledad wavering. There were horses to spare in the Crooked S corral. It would be worthwhile to trade them for security against a Comanche raid. Sam temporized.

  “I will talk with the man who owns the horses,” he said. “You will come with me. I swear to your safety.”

  Maizie urged, “You can trust him. He is Cemetery Jones.”

  It was a trepidatious moment. Sam felt a surge of optimism. Then two braves shouted, “No! No!”

  One of them made a dash for the guns. Sam fired close enough to send him tumbling unhurt to earth. Moseby followed suit.

  “We do not wish to hurt you,” Sam shouted.

  The moment had passed. There was a movement by the dissidents among the Comanches. In another few seconds there would be a small war.

  Then Ranger Keen came thundering in, swinging a whip, howling. He slammed into the rope corral and set free the Comanche horses. He drove them through the scattering braves and out the narrow end of the canyon.

  There was complete confusion. Sam said, “This is no damn good,” and slid down the sloping edge of the ravine. Soledad spun around, undecided, unarmed. His men huddled, not understanding.

  Keen yelled, “Round ’em up.”

  In that second, his horse stepped into a hole. He went up and over and down. He lay still as a stone as his horse recovered, shivered, and stood stock-still.

  Sam held his rifle on Soledad. He said, “My men will cut you down, every last one of you, unless you listen.” Sweat was running down his back. If Soledad guessed how few they were, it was all over, he knew. He prayed they would not show themselves, the kid and the southern marksman. It was now a poker game and he held his only card open and on the table: the rifle in his hands, the muzzle pressed against the chest of the Indian. It was time for bluffing.

  He said loudly and angrily, “That man you have caused to die is a Texas Ranger. You know what that means. Not one of you will make another moon raid. They will track you down and destroy you.” He sought words in their peculiar patois. “You are brave, but you are foolish. Maizie.”

  She jumped as though stuck with a knife point.

  He said, “Load those rifles and the ammunition onto that pack animal. Jump!”

  She obeyed without hesitation. She had enough knowhow to stack the weapons in the panniers, Sam saw. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement among the recalcitrants he had noticed before. They were moving toward Maizie.

  He called, “Moseby! Come down here. You others stay.”

  Moseby came sliding. The Comanches hesitated, then charged. Moseby fired two shots.

  There was a howl and a scream. One Indian doubled over with a broken shinbone. The other whirled around clapping his left hand to his right shoulder.

  Soledad twitched, but Sam thrust the muzzle of the rifle into his belly. “Foolish. Don’t you be foolish. Tell your men to obey.”

  Soledad hesitated. Moseby menaced the braves who made spasmodic movement. Sam thought of the kid up on the edge of the canyon with only her shotgun and her machete. The whole endeavor hung by a thread. If Soledad was fanatic enough to die, there was no chance they could survive a concerted attack by the remaining Comanches.

  Moseby was reloading. There was a light in his eyes that Sam had not seen before. The Comanches were huddling, staring. Sam asked, “Everyone up top okay?”

  “Yes, suh,” said Moseby calmly. “Doin’ just fine.”

  Sam said, “Take my place here. If he moves, kill him.”

  Moseby walked slowly to them and thrust his rifle muzzle into Soledad’s chest, looked him in the eye, and said, “You heard the man.”

  Soledad blinked. Maizie continued to stack rifles. Sam checked her and nodded. “We’ll get you out of this.”

  “I don’t want out. I want to be with him.”

  “Whatever,” said Sam. “Just do like I say now.”

  He walked to where Ranger Keen lay. He bent down and Keen opened one eye. Sam slowly shook his head. “So he’s dead. There’s only one way you can survive now, Soledad, without the Rangers on your back, that is. Do you savvy? Only if we live to tell that it was an accident.”

  After a short moment, Soledad nodded. He said hoarsely, “You would leave us without our horses?”

  “We didn’t start this,” Sam said. “You can track the horses; we will not steal them. You cannot have the guns.” Brave and quick in action these Indians were, but Sam knew that they could be mesmerized by a succession of events not previously in their experience. He counted upon this knowledge now. He said smoothly, “Maizie, empty those rifles that you brought.”

  She did so, spilling the cartridges on the ground. Soledad shook his head in despair.

  Sam spoke again. “Now toss the ammunition into the bushes over yonder.”

  Again she did as she was told. It was getting closer and closer to danger time. Everything depended on timing. Well, thought Sam, didn’t all else in this world depend on it? He grinned at Soledad.

  “You have men to care for. You have horses to track. Not one of yours has died here, and we would like it to remain so. Our quarrel is with Duffy, not with the Comanche,” Sam said. In almost the same breath, he threw over his shoulder to Moseby, “Load that Ranger on his horse, and do it respectful-like.”

  It had all happened too fast for Soledad to absorb the events, but he knew he had been foiled for the present. He grunted and muttered, almost to himself, “I will remember you, Cemetery Jones

  “Good,” came Sam’s quick riposte. “Then remember that I saved your life!”

  “Pah!”

  “And remember that I leave you your woman. That we did not come to kill. The death of the Ranger was no fault of yours. Pray to your gods that I live to testify in court as to your innocence.” Sam could not be sure that he had translated all so that Soledad could understand it, but he knew the Comanche had the gist of it.

  It was still devilishly ticklish, and Sam stepped away with an air of assurance that he wished he could truly feel. He followed Moseby and the horse bearing the Ranger. He walked backward, very carefully. It was a good piece to the mouth of the ravine. One misstep and there was no way to predict what the Comanches might do. Aroused from their trance, they might make a rush, taking their chances on death from the muzzle of his gun. They had been known to do much worse.

  Sam called back as he retreated, “Maizie, tell him Duffy will be ridin’ on the Crooked S. Tell him Duffy wants it all, everything in the county. Ask him if he thinks Duffy will do more for him than Stubby.” It was one more chance to take today.

  Maizie nodded and slapped the pack animal onto the trail toward him. Sam picked up the lead line in his left hand. He knew he would have to be extra careful since the Comanches wanted the rifles so badly that they would take almost any chance. One of them moved and Sam fired from the hip, missing the Indian by a hair. Soledad’s eyes glittered in fury, but he motioned the Comanche group to complete stillness.

  Sam went on. His heel hit a rock and he stumbled over a tricky place in the path but managed to keep his rifle steady. The Comanches leaned forward as though on leashes, then swayed back as they looked into the face of certain death.

  The trail, scarcely visible, ran narrow through the canyon. Only the kid knew its eccentricity. Moseby led the little caravan carefully, with the Ranger face down on his h
orse. In pain as he must be, Keen gave no sign of life for the Comanches to read. It was important that they believe that the Ranger was dead. The little caravan crept along, step by step. With the utmost concentration, Sam kept his eyes on the back trail.

  When they came to a wider place, there was also the danger of Duffy’s men prowling the area. When Sam felt that the Indians had followed them no farther, he made his way to Keen. The Ranger’s eyes were closed, his face rigid with pain. The horse was remarkably steady, a well-trained animal.

  Sam asked, “Can you make it?”

  “Got to,” muttered Keen through clenched teeth.

  “The doctor will come right out to the ranch,” Sam told him. “Stay tough.”

  “It ain’t easy. My damn hip.”

  There was a lump on his head as well. Sam realized the Ranger had suffered a concussion in the fall. “Can you handle it for a while?”

  “Got to, don’t I?”

  “Think you can set the saddle?”

  “My hip.” He seemed to drift away. Moseby came, and they tried to make him comfortable.

  The kid suddenly appeared. Impatient, she said, “I got rid of the Comanche who was following. Now I got to get our horses.”

  “Yeah.” She was gone before Sam could draw a breath. He said to Moseby, “She’s right sudden.”

  Moseby was staring after her. “Who in Sam Hill is she?”

  “That’s somethin’ we don’t know and wish we did. Calls herself Mac; hates Duffy.”

  “Beautiful girl,” said Moseby.

  “You noticed that? Dangerous as a rattler. Mean as a mule.” Sam shook his head. “Good as gold, and maybe brighter.”

  They made their way slowly along the uncertain path. Sam knew the kid had to climb to the bluff, mount, and lead horses that hated to be led. That she could do so was a matter of course. Still, there was danger everywhere.

  They plodded along. Sam said, “You looked mighty fine back there, partner. What do you call yourself among friends?”

  “Checkers’ll do, suh.” He smiled. “Never been in such a fuss before. Wouldn’t have believed I could manage.”

  “You can shoot with anybody hereabouts. And elsewhere.”

  “Shootin’, sure, that’s one thing. Firin’ at people you don’t know, that’s another. Scary business.”

  They came to a place where longhorns munched placidly on grass. Sam said, “There’s your cows.”

  “Never took note of them before,” said Moseby. “Long-legged critters, ain’t they.”

  “They can run, and you better not be sittin’ still in their way when they decide to go,” Sam told him. “You won’t know scared till you been in a stampede.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Moseby walked on a few steps silently, then said, “Only wanted to get to California, y’know? All this is outa my line.”

  “Tell you the truth, it ain’t what you might call a reg’lar sort of happenstance. Comes about when a man gets too greedy and reaches too far.”

  “Duffy?”

  “There’s been others. Some of ’em own thousands of acres, sit in high places.”

  “Could be stopped, you reckon?”

  “Aim to try,” Sam told him.

  “Seems worthwhile.” Moseby was making a commitment. It was apparent in his voice and his grin. “You notice that gal toted her blunderbuss along with her?”

  “What you didn’t see is, she carries a machete strung down her back.” Sam grinned. “Nobody catches her short.”

  “A magnolia blossom she’s not, for sure. But some kind of a gal, she certainly is,” said Moseby.

  “For sure,” Sam answered. He wondered if Renee, back in Sunrise, would, in all her wisdom, be able to give him a notion about little Mac and what made her tick.

  They reached a stand of pine near the main road leading to Stubby’s place. They stopped, and Sam again checked the Ranger. There was no sign of the kid and the horses.

  Keen moaned, a low, deep note. Between them, Sam and Moseby managed to ease him down from the horse to a clump of soft, fallen needles. He opened his eyes and murmured, “My damn hip.”

  Sam examined his right hip gingerly. Moseby looked over his shoulder and said apologetically, “I’ve had a bit of trainin’ in this, suh.”

  “Good. What can we do?”

  “If you’ll hold him steady.”

  Sam did so. Moseby explored with his gambler’s hands. He loosened the Ranger’s belt, pushed against bone. There was a somewhat frightening click, and then Keen’s body patently relaxed. The Ranger sighed and slept for the first time.

  “You did that right smart,” Sam said. He asked no questions, he was proffered no explanation. He was becoming aware of the depths within depths in Lamar V. Moseby, alias Checkers. “Good thing, too. I was lyin’ about the doctor. It’ll be more like a week.”

  “This one’ll be laid up that long at least,” Moseby said.

  “He’s tough.” Sam explained, “All Rangers are tough hombres. Born that way, seems like. Poor pay; life’s never their own; people shootin’ at ’em. People like Duffy. Indians. Mexican bandits raidin’ across the Rio Grande. Not many of ’em, these Rangers, but they get a lot of respect.”

  “Respect. Ah, yes.”

  Sam noted the wistful note in Moseby’s voice. “Give ’em cause, they’d be down on Duffy right sudden. Keen, here, he was assigned to the Comanches, so he stuck to it. Still, Duffy knows he’s around; it slows him down.”

  “You reckon Duffy will move if he knows Keen is out of it?”

  “Long as he don’t know just where Keen is, it might keep him worried at least.”

  Moseby said, “Duffy’s got the army, Duffy’s got the money, Duffy’s got the desire. You sure we ain’t fightin’ the War Between the States all over again—on the wrong side?”

  “Hell, no! I ain’t sure of doodley squat,” said Sam. “Although seems like we don’t always get to choose the side we might like in most wars. Hell!” He swore admiringly. “Here comes that wild kid.”

  She was hunched over the neck of the mustang as always. She had not found it necessary to lead the roan or the black; they were trotting alongside her, doing her bidding.

  Moseby said, “Extraordinary.”

  “Whatever. Goes beyond reason. Loco kid.”

  Moseby politely disagreed, with raised eyebrows. “Beautiful child. Nature’s own, perhaps.”

  She came in and looked down at the Ranger. “He goin’ to die?”

  “No. He’s goin’ to Stubby’s house,” Sam said.

  She said, “Didn’t see hair nor hide of any of Duffy’s riders. Can you figure what that means?”

  “Could be a gathering,” said Sam. “Let’s get on the road.”

  “I’ll go into town.”

  Sam said, “No.”

  “I can learn what’s goin’ to happen,” she argued.

  “We know what’s goin’ to happen,” Sam told her. “We just don’t know when. You go with us.”

  “Please?” Moseby added.

  She ignored him. Her big eyes fixed on Sam intently. “You mean it, don’t you?”

  “You better believe it.”

  For a moment she hesitated. Then she said in a smaller voice, “If you really, damn, truly mean it.”

  “It’s for the good of all of us.”

  “If you say so.”

  Sam heard the compliance in her voice with relief. He said, “Let’s get the Ranger back to the Crooked S. Time’s a-wastin’.”

  It was the first time the kid had given an inch. Sam wondered if she was obeying him or if it had been Moseby’s placating “please” that had swayed her. He would, he grudgingly concluded, never understand this maverick girl.

  They made their way slowly. They passed a herd of longhorns being watched by a couple of Stubby’s men. The skies were darkening. A Texas storm was suddenly threatening. The cowboys were riding among the cattle humming to the sensitive, hairy ears. Storms were often the cause of stampedes and
soothing sounds seldom stopped them, Sam knew.

  At the ranch, Pit Pickens was waiting. He asked, “You see Callahan and Casey on the way? Sent ’em to watch out for the storm.”

  “Didn’t see them, just Morgan and Dobey,” said Sam. “Give us a hand with the Ranger here.”

  Pit came to help, asking no questions. He said, “Got no place but the bunkhouse.” He nodded toward Mac. “She goes in the house.”

  “Just let’s get him comfortable,” said Sam.

  They made up a corner bunk for Keen. He muttered unintelligible sentences, then said clearly, “Wish to report. Soledad and band in canyon ... Horses …” He lapsed back into limbo.

  “Fever,” said Pickens. “Got to give him somethin’. By golly, look at the lump on his head.”

  “The rock was harder,” Sam said. He looked at the girl. “You go inside the house. This here is for men.”

  “Men don’t scare me.” She snorted.

  “Scarin’ ain’t it,” he told her.

  Pickens spoke. “Just when I got it all sorted out ... Will somebody tell me what’s been goin’ on?”

  “First and foremost, we’re all hungry,” Sam said. “If you can look after this Ranger, maybe Matilda will put on some grub for us.”

  “Matilda can look out for the ... Ranger, you say?” Pit answered. “I got to know what’s goin’ on.”

  They went into the kitchen. Matilda said, “Pot’s on. What you all want of me now?”

  “Man out yonder’s got a fever,” Pit said. “You know what to do.”

  “What man?” Matilda was suspicious.

  “A Texas Ranger,” Sam said. “Fell on his head.”

  “Hmph! If more white folks fell on their heads, might knock some sense into ’em.” Nevertheless, she gathered towels, mustard, and other ingredients known to every ranch dweller and made her way out to the bunkhouse.

  Pickens said, “Stubby’s out lookin’ for trouble. Is he going to find it right now, or later, is what I want to know.”

  “Who can tell? The Comanches are lookin’ for their horses. We got a load of guns Duffy intended for them. Storm’s comin’ up, and the Ranger’s got a headache,” Sam answered.

  Moseby added, “If I might say so, you’ve got another man to fight for you.”