Cemetery Jones 2

by William R. Cox

  “Aw. Please don’t fret, Renee.” Donkey touched her shoulder.

  He understood vaguely. “Maybe you’d like to see the preacher.”

  She forced a smile. “The preacher and I have talked.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “In his fashion,” she murmured. Preacher Shawn was a bit too holy for her taste, too strong on fundamentals and too weak on subtleties of the faith. “He is good for the town. I prefer talking with Abe Solomon. He is a wise man.”

  Solomon was the town banker, a founding father, and close to Sam Jones and Renee. His wisdom was always a balm to her fears.

  As she thought of him, gray-bearded Abe Solomon entered the saloon accompanied by large, young Adam Burr, a thoroughly transplanted Eastern youth, and his bride, the former Peggy McLane. They gathered around the piano and frowned when Renee shook her head.

  “But he promised to write,” said Peggy McLane Burr.

  “That, my dear, is the point,” said her husband. “Sam always keeps his promises.”

  “I know that.” Peggy frowned. “Maybe he’s just awful busy. Maybe there’s no pen and paper where he is.”

  Solomon, the wise, said, “Maybe the moon is made of green cheese. We all know he’s into something, no?”

  “Yes. A lot of something,” Renee said. Still, the company of her friends helped. She managed to smile and swung into a Mozart fantasy that always pleased them. Friends, she knew, were what really mattered in the everyday world. Love had only brought her sorrow long before she came to Sunrise. The love she had now would endure as long as Sam lived—and beyond. It would have to be enough for now. She could hold tight to faith, believe in his faith. In her checkered past, never disclosed to a living person, she had never met a man like Sam, nor one who compared with him in any way, including in the arts of love and quiet communion.

  Donkey said, “About time to make the rounds. Maybe tomorrow’s mail, Renee, huh?”

  “That’s right.” She stood up, tall and straight, smiled at her friends, and said, “I have a fine brandy upstairs. Join me.”

  It was good to be with the three of them: the old man, the youth who worked at the bank, and the bride who had been a dance-hall girl and was still a lady. It would do until Sam came home.

  The lightning flashed. Sam Jones said, “Moseby, you wouldn’t be worth a fiddler’s itch out there. You stay and watch for trouble at the house.”

  “You said there’d be some shootin’,” Moseby complained.

  “You’ll get your fill,” Sam told him. “Francisco, you stay, too.”

  “Them steers are so spooked now, any damn thing can happen,” Pit muttered.

  “Stubby’s out there with the boys. It’s you and me, now.” Sam turned toward the stairs.

  Pit’s voice stopped him. “Best not say a word to Mary.”

  Sam hesitated. “You’re right, I reckon.” He checked his step toward the stairway, blinked, stared, and blinked again.

  The maverick kid stood on the landing. She wore a long skirt and a white blouse. Her neck was tanned by exposure to the sun, but was nonetheless smooth and lovely, as were the big dark eyes she turned on Sam.

  “Well, Miss Mac, you’re lookin’ mighty fine this evenin’,” Sam spoke gallantly. Any thoughts of Mary were quickly gone from the curious faces turned to survey the kid. It was just as the women had planned it.

  “Better’n I need to,” the kid snapped. “I should be out there ridin’.”

  “Oh, my, my, now.” Sam was unable to keep the teasing tone from his voice. “How many herds have you driven?” he asked with meticulous politeness. “How many stampedin’ steers you roped lately?”

  She bit back her usual tart answer, biting her lip in order to follow Mary’s and Matilda’s instructions.

  “I reckon Matilda can use you here, as much as we boys will be missing your help outside. That is, if you haven’t plumb forgotten what it is young ladies are supposed to do.”

  Sam saw the flush creep into her face, but she answered him evenly. “Mary said you should look out for Stubby, but she didn’t say who should look out for you.”

  Surprised by her easy acquiescence, Sam nodded, his mind occupied with trying to anticipate all the troubles this night would surely hold for the Crooked S and the people for whom he had made himself responsible.

  He still heard the taunt and goaded back, “Don’t you worry yourself none over me, missy. It’s a wild night for weather, and anything might happen, but I’ve gotten through the likes before.” He wished he was as confident as he sounded.

  “Well.” She paused. “You look out, will ya?”

  “Yeah,” he drawled, “and you give Matilda a hand. She’ll be busy cookin’ for those who can get back for food.”

  “Sure will,” she assured him, stepping halfway down the stairs. Dainty slippers and a whisper of black stockings momentarily bemused Sam, but then he turned for the door.

  Her voice stopped him, and he turned to see the maverick in her eyes, straining against what she had been told to do. “Duffy’s out there.” She pointed. “He’s aiming to do harm. He’s got a damn army to help. I should be lookin’ for him.”

  “I’ll be keepin’ an eye out,” he told her.

  “Yes,” she said, “but I don’t want to miss the chance.” Her voice was the kid’s again, wild and steady. Her tiny hand clenched into a fist.

  “Look, kid, if the cows start runnin’, it’ll be his herd as well as the Crooked S bunch. It’ll be dark as the inside of a boot, and who’s to know what from which? Further and more, you can keep an eye out right here. You and Moseby and Francisco, that ain’t an army, but it’s three good people. Leave Duffy to me.”

  After a moment, she nodded. “If anybody, it would be you, Sam.”

  “Well, now, let’s not go all headlong,” he said. “It’s just that he can get in my way as well as anybody’s and I’d sure like for that to happen.”

  She stood only one step above him now, bringing her head just even with his chest. Suddenly her face softened and she threw her arms around him. “I know. I know. From the first damn time, when you pulled them kids off me, I knew. Don’t you get hurt, Sam Jones. Please, don’t you get hurt.”

  He held her awkwardly. “Now, now, kid. We’ll talk about you and Duffy and whatever when this night’s over. You take care of Mary and keep a gun handy.”

  She released him and fled up the stairs. Sam exhaled a deep breath. The maverick kid, a lovely young girl, still sought vengeance on Duffy for reasons unknown; and, he divined, she was a bit too personally interested in one Samuel Hornblow Jones.

  He stopped in the kitchen where Pit waited with Francisco and Moseby, who was still making noises about being left out of the action.

  Sam and Pit left Moseby grumbling in the kitchen and went to the horses. The storm was lashing them now; it was nearly a gale.

  Pit said, “Hell to pay, for sure.”

  Matilda burst from the house to intercept them before they could mount.

  She shouted into the wind, “Here now, you good-for-nothing men. Don’t you ride off and leave me with that sick man in the bunkhouse. That man, he real sick. Talkin’ ’bout some captain or t’other’ll be on his butt. We need a doctor here.”

  “Can’t be helped, Matilda,” Sam shouted.

  “Well, I wants him in the house so’s I can watch him,” she insisted, the wind swirling her skirts against her legs.

  “Get Moseby and Francisco to help bring him in and keep an eye out as best you can. Those Comanches may take a notion.”

  “And just be damn glad you don’t have to ride,” said Pit, as he mounted his horse. “We best get moseyin’, Sam.”

  Matilda snapped, “I could ride, too, like as not as good as you, old man. You just watch out for yo’ ownself.”

  As they turned into the storm, Pit said to Sam, “That Matilda’s one fine woman. She’s taken care of Mary Stone like a mother. But she can’t ride worth a damn. Let’s get outa here.” />
  Sam sat astride the roan, which was not a cow pony by any means but had responded well in all situations up until now. He said, “It’s been a long time since I worked cows in a storm.”

  “Keep close. I ain’t as young as I once was, but I know what’s what,” Pit said. It was the blackest of nights, and the rain swept one way and then the other. The lightning flashes were welcome in showing the way. “We’ll head for the river. Stubby and the boys will be tryin’ to cut them off from going into the drink. If we had a dozen more hands, I’d feel a hell of a lot better.”

  “Seems to me Duffy’s got the same problem,” Sam allowed. “Exceptin’ he’s got more men.”

  “Most of which don’t know the land too good.” They rode on toward the Pecos. “Trouble is, will they take to shootin’ at us?”

  “Pickin’ targets won’t be easy on a night like this,” Sam said.

  “Uh-huh. ’Ceptin’ we care who we hit.”

  That was true. Such guns as Duffy hired had no love for each other. Sam wondered about Jackson and Magrew, who were partners. They were the most dangerous, of course. He thought somberly of the man he had killed, the man called Max. What had been his connection with the Duffy contingent? How much did his demise mean except that it could be held against him, as murder while escaping from jail? If Keen did not recover, and Duffy told convincing-enough lies, the Rangers would have a lot of questions to ask of Sam Jones.

  They pushed on to the river, now higher and swifter and deeper. They followed the bank until they heard the familiar clashing of horns that meant they had reached the herd. It was certain that, even short-handed, Stubby had pulled it together so that it could be more easily patrolled. A convenient slash of lightning identified that worthy sitting his mount directly ahead. Pit called out to identify himself, and the trio came together.

  “Figured you’d be along this way,” said Stubby. “How was Mary?”

  “Perked up. Her and Mac playin’ house, like,” said Sam. “Moseby and Francisco are standin’ by.”

  “How’s the Ranger?”

  “Matilda says bad. She was going to have Moseby and Francisco help her get him up to the house.”

  “We got our hands right full,” said Stubby. “They’re gettin’ restless. Ain’t heard nothin’ from Duffy’s bunch.”

  “Trouble is, even our druthers ain’t no good,” said Pit Pickens gloomily. “If the cows go to Duffy’s, that’ll be hell. River’s worse. The road? They could go all the way to town. And they will truly raise hell with the chickens, if they go toward the house.”

  Stubby answered, “They been through storms before is why they ain’t started yet. It’d take somethin’ special to get ’em going, I figure.”

  “Somethin’ special is what allus happens,” growled the old man. “I’ll just take me a look-see.” He rode down to the river’s edge.

  “I sure dragged you into it,” Stubby said. “I thought—well, damned if I know just what I did think. You always had more smarts than me. Reckon I figured you’d think of somethin’ that’d take Duffy off my back. It was plain, rotten selfish of me, that’s what it was.”

  “Partner, you were worryin’ for Mary and the baby,” Sam said. “So you sent for me. I’m right proud.”

  “Hell, I dunno what to say, Sam. I—”

  “Talkin’ won’t do it right now, will it? Which way you think we ought to ride?” With stunning speed, the answer came from above.

  The thunder was deafening. The lightning was close by. It struck a dead tree leaning over the river and set it afire. Horns rattled, and the bellowing of steers became louder than the falling rain and the roaring river.

  As always, the longhorns milled, clashing, looking for a leader. Sam and Stubby yelled, riding, using their ropes, lashing to keep them going in circles, hoping to dispel the cattle’s panic with their own actions. They heard the voices of the other Crooked S riders endeavoring to do the same.

  It had been many a long year since Sam Jones had played cowboy, but now he was in the role up to his ears. The fire turned the wild cattle away from the river, but which way the stampede would go was still hidden in the cards, he knew. One thing was certain: The rush was on. Once it started, it could not be stopped until time ran down and men conquered frightened beasts.

  It was then that lightning flashed again and the curse of St. Elmo’s fire manifested itself. He had gone through this once in his youth on the trail, long before he’d learned that it was anything other than malevolent magic, this manifestation of static electricity that took the form of white, glowing circlets attached to the cattle’s horns at the very points, rolling wildly in phosphorescent balls. Nothing drove a herd further into panic.

  In the reflected glow, he saw Stubby and then heard him cursing as he still tried to keep the herd from milling, riding too close, dangerously near needle-sharp horns. Sam saw one of the other cowboys circling near Stubby. He could not make out which one it was.

  He shouted and used his rope, whipping at the running cattle. The rain slapped at his face, blinding him. Then the roan faltered and he knew why, and he was forced to slow down. Junior was a sound animal, but this work demanded a wiry cayuse that could spin on a silver dollar and give change. He perforce pulled up. The steam rose from Junior’s hide; his head went down. To try to drive him further was pointless. On a cattle drive, there would be a remuda from which to find another mount. But here, so far from the corral at the ranch, he was helpless.

  As he sat, he realized that somewhere beyond his ken, the herd had found a direction. The drumming was louder and steadier as their hoofs beat the ground. He could not ascertain which way they were heading, and that he had to know.

  The ghostly light of St. Elmo’s fire limned the tall figure of Pit Pickens riding toward him. Sam hallooed. Pit pulled up, squinting into the strange half-darkness.

  “That you, Sam?”

  “My horse is stove in.”

  “Figgers. There’s worse. They got a leader, old Satan. And he’s takin’ them back to the house.”

  “What about Duffy’s herd?”

  “Comin’ the same damn way. Like they can smell it out. I got to get back there and split ’em.”

  “Duffy’s men?”

  “They got a Mex and some of his reg’lars. Mex has a few vaqueros, real good riders. You know what that means with all of ’em running toward the house and the buildings?”

  “I’m on my way.” Sam knew what it meant, all right. Ruination, unless there was some way to split the running cattle. He knew the problem and he knew the danger. There might be time, he thought, to beat the herd there even on weary Junior. He said, “Red horse, I may have to kill you, but we got to make a try.”

  He followed the dim figure of Pickens. Now the rain had slackened. The storm was moving away northward to devastate. Junior responded to Sam’s urging, having regained his wind.

  Sam thought of Mary; of the kid, now a young lady; of Keen, the Ranger; of the inexperienced Moseby; and of the one-armed Francisco. He thought of Stubby racing with the herd, worrying about his wife and his home. He wondered what direction Duffy’s big herd would take when the vaqueros got it under control.

  In his single-minded preoccupation with immediate problems, he never once gave thought to the way Matilda had gathered her charges into the house.

  He rode with all possible haste but took appropriate care. There was a climax approaching and he had to be there when it happened. It seemed impossible, but this dreaded night was almost gone.

  The Comanches had managed to recapture their horses except for Soledad’s, the best of the bunch, and he had complained, Maizie knew, even though she could not hear what he said. She had seen him snatch a halter from one of the braves and wave him into the darkness before he could protest.

  She huddled miserably near the fire that Soledad had managed to build by scraping pulpwood from the sticks she had gathered. The overhanging cliff gave only partial shelter.

  Soledad had not questi
oned her about giving Jones the guns and would not do so, she knew.

  She watched in the strangeness and confusion of this night as he pointed toward the sound of scattered gunshots and pushed the young brave whose horse he had taken out of the circle of light.

  She watched the brave dissolve into the scrub, knowing he would return with another horse, however he obtained it from its proper owner.

  Her own horse had remained where she had tethered him before she had brought in the guns to Soledad.

  The Indians waited stoically, rain dripping from their faces, eyes fixed on Soledad as he moved back to the fire.

  Maizie knew what they thought of her. She knew that it was too late to change anything. She despaired even as she spoke. “Will you ride for Duffy without the guns?”

  “The guns are at the Crooked S with Jones,” Soledad answered. “We cannot return to my father without horses.”

  There was a long silence as they waited for the brave to return with another horse. Unnerved by the quiet, Maizie slipped away from the fire as silently as the brave had dissolved into the scrub. She returned quickly, leading her mount. Handing the reins to Soledad, she said bitterly, “Now you wait no more. You have a horse.” She turned away, hearing the braves titter among themselves at Soledad holding the reins to the woman’s saddled horse.

  Flushed in spite of the cold, Soledad whipped her back to face him and silently handed her the reins. Maizie knew that she had twice shamed him that day.

  Any Comanche woman would have gladly died before giving Jones the guns. She had been the cause of bad face for Soledad, and she had thought to make it better by proffering the horse. She now knew that they had already considered taking her horse and that Soledad had rejected the choice. At least, she thought, he intended to let her live.

  She also knew how long that life would last if the sullen warriors had their way. She hated these men who held Soledad’s loyalty in a way that she would never be able to.

  Again there was the long silence in which she could hear the rain slackening, see the fire gaining volume.