Cemetery Jones 2

by William R. Cox

“I’m ready.” She did not look ready in Mary’s pretty dress. She said, “I knew about your lady in Sunrise.”

  “You do know a lot about everything.”

  “I ask. I even read postcards. I know the telegraph operator in Bowville. Did you ever write that letter?”

  He ladled out the stew. “Never had a chance.”

  “Maybe—maybe she’ll be really mad at you?” Her voice said, I hope.

  “Not likely.” Then he realized she was teasing him. “Well, what if she is?” he said.

  This time Maxine looked him right in the eye. “I told you, I ain’t no kid.”

  Sam bent and fiddled with the damper of the stove. Few women had ever embarrassed him. This one was just a damn maverick kid. He looked at her and she wasn’t a kid, not truly, and he had to grin.

  Stubby came quietly down the stairs. He stopped and stared around. His gaze fastened on Sam. He said flatly, “Mary’s having the baby, Sam. She’s having the baby right now!” Sam couldn’t think of anything that would have made Stubby any more scared than he was at that moment.

  “May the Good Lord be with her, Stubby,” he said.

  “Lord bless us all,” Stubby said dazedly.

  Maxine ran upstairs. Sam and Stubby stood silently for a moment in the misty morning light. Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, that’s the way it is. Now I ’spect we better all look alive here.” He shook the dozing men awake. “Moseby, you and Francisco go get them rifles out from the bunkhouse. Don’t want no stray Comanches grabbing off that cache.”

  Sam saw Stubby looking at him, pleading to be told what to do, how to act. “That’s all right, ol’ partner.” When I knew I was going to cash in all my chips, you were there, Sam thought. Aloud he said, “Stubby, I don’t know anything about your stores. When the boys get those weapons in here, it’d help if you could get out ammunition and see that everybody’s armed.”

  “Me, too,” Matilda said from the foot of the stairs. She was drenched with perspiration. Maxine followed her into the kitchen.

  Stubby looked to Sam for what to do. Sam shrugged and then spoke. “Reckon Matilda’s right, old friend. Mary’ll be all right, if we win this one. And nothing’s gonna be right if we lose.”

  Moseby staggered in with a horse blanket full of rifles and a minimum of help from Francisco, and dumped them on the floor with a clatter.

  “Now,” Sam said. “We all know what has to be done. Let’s get to it.” The room became a beehive of purposeful action.

  “We got plenty of guns and ammunition,” Stubby said with some hope.

  Before anyone could answer, there was a high, whining shout from outdoors. “Halloo, the house.”

  “That would be our brave Marshal Simon,” Sam said, sliding away from the table. “Get guns, keep your heads down, and watch out at every window.”

  The voice sounded again. “Stubby Stone, we know you got Cemetery Jones in there. Him and that Checkers. They’re wanted by the law.”

  Stubby was at the stairs. “Should I answer him?”

  The kid said, “He’s not in sight. He’s pure chicken shit, ain’t he?”

  “Mind your language, girl.” Sam kept his voice calm. “Stubby, wait a minute until you get your gun ready. Get Moseby’s ready, too. There’s too many of ’em out there to take any chances.”

  He silently thought of the absent cowboys and dismissed the idea with a shrug. Cowboys—thirty dollars a month and found, risking their lives, working hard hours—were a proud and select species of the West. Given the chance, he knew they would battle to the end for the boss. Sam had ridden with them, had briefly been one of them. He knew they could not get back in time to be of help with the job at hand.

  Stubby interrupted his musings. “We got guns here now. I’m going up to the window on the landing.”

  Matilda overrode him. “Ain’t nobody goin’ up those stairs but me unless I’m dead, even if I have to be high gun. Ain’t nobody shootin’ ’round the missus but me,” she scolded.

  “Whatever.” Sam shrugged off the tirade. “Stubby, get yourself a place, then wait a minute. Let him yell.”

  “We got a legal posse out here,” Simon shouted again. “Give up them two and that’ll be it.”

  “Like hell,” Maxine said. “Duffy wants me.”

  Stubby looked at Sam. “Okay?”

  “Let them wait,” Sam insisted. “Makes them nervish.” There was a minute of silence. Then another voice, closer by, yelled, “Hey, they got Fielder. I just found him, head-shot. Deader’n a doornail.”

  A shotgun suddenly roared in the living room. The voice outside gave a yelp and was quickly silent. Matilda ducked in from the front room, grinning. “Butt shot,” she crowed. “Bet that one won’t weep too long for Fielder. That ought to keep them away from my sick folks for a few more minutes.” She broke and reloaded the shotgun as she made for the stairs.

  Sam said, “I’d feel a whole lot better if Keen and Pit could do anything. You see anybody, Maxine?”

  “Call me Mac,” she snapped. “No, they’re keepin’ out of sight.”

  “We know they’re behind the bunkhouse. We got to know they’re in the barn. Beyond that there’s not much cover. Is Moseby covering the other side?”

  “Yep,” said Stubby. “You know what? They’re goin’ to break all our windows. Mary and me, we set a lot of store by them glass windows.”

  “A shame,” Sam said. Stubby was all right. He knew that giving up Sam wouldn’t stop Duffy. He knew what had to happen, and in spite of his fears for Mary, he was keeping a stiff upper lip.

  Sam felt bad. Here he had come down to help, and the way it was going, he was giving Duffy a fake legal stand. Even if Keen wasn’t out of it, they could kill him and swear the deed was done by Cemetery Jones. Everybody knew Cemetery Jones was a killer.

  Simon’s voice was now a shriek. “Stubby Stone, you got one minute to deliver that murderer. One minute, then we’re comin’ in.”

  “In a pig’s eye they will,” Sam said. “Just keep your heads down, everybody.”

  He held the rifle loosely, trying to locate Simon from the sound of his voice. He had to allow for an echo, but he thought the marshal was too close to be hiding behind one of the buildings. He sighted into the trees.

  Moseby came hustling into the kitchen. “That fool, Pit, says he’s got one arm and he wants a gun.”

  “Give him one,” Sam said. “But make him keep his fool head out of sight. How’s the Ranger?”

  “I’ll watch him and the Ranger.” Moseby selected a handgun for Pit and went back to Matilda’s patients.

  “Time’s up.” The voice was really hysterical now. The voice was Simon’s, but the words, Sam knew, were Duffy’s. He poised himself beneath the window, pushing the girl aside. There was a crashing sound as shot shattered the glass where she had stood.

  Sam leveled the gun on the window frame. He sprayed lead in an arc, directing it at the spot from which he guessed Simon had called. He hoped Duffy would be nearby but knew it was in vain.

  Once more they heard Simon’s voice. This time he screamed, “I’m shot! They got me!”

  Matilda fired from upstairs. Stubby and the kid joined in, and Moseby did, too, from the big front room. Lots of wild shots, Sam thought, but at least the sound might impress them.

  There was silence. No one showed himself outdoors. There would be a palaver about tactics now, Sam knew. They had no notion of rushing a house with that much firepower showing.

  They would try to pick off the defenders until they could start a fire. That kind always started fires, if only to blame their misdeeds on the Indians. They had not even had the nerve to let down the bars of the corral to free the horses before this could be resolved either way, with or without the Comanches.

  Sam conjectured again about Duffy’s tactics. He knew they could start a fire, easily, in the bunkhouse or the barn. Either way it would panic the horses, and the bars could not hold them once they were caught in t
he fire. The Indians would get the ones without broken legs, for sure.

  If only he could get outdoors, he thought. If he could just move around and catch a few of them in his sights, he would give them a reason to be nervous, he swore silently to himself. He had been through it before and he knew what had to be done.

  On the other hand, the few in the house could hold out against the larger numbers outdoors as long as there was no concerted rush.

  Duffy’s people would never make that charge. And the cowboys had to return sooner or later, he thought. But what if they rode in without hearing gunfire?

  The tension inside of Sam was unbearable. He opened and closed his left hand making a fist as he moved restlessly but cautiously about the kitchen.

  He could not stand the thought of Stubby losing his property, his remuda, maybe even his life to these cowardly bastards who would not even show themselves. And the baby was coming.

  He watched through slitted eyes for the first wisp of smoke, his hand still opening and closing spasmodically.

  There was desultory firing. All of Stubby’s treasured glass was gone. No one inside had been hurt, but there had been no gain either. He kept looking for the wisp of fire, hating the thought.

  The shooting outside slackened. Now, Sam thought, now, you bastards! And he was right. It came from the bunkhouse, closest to the house and the safest cover for them. There was dense black smoke; they had used coal oil.

  Ah! He exulted silently as a breeze came, sweeping the smoke toward the house. In a flash, he was out the door, pausing only to call, “Cover me!” as he raced for the bunkhouse.

  He had only the cartridges in his rifle, but he had picked up an extra revolver and stuffed it into his belt as he went. He heard the anguished, stifled cry of the girl behind him, but nothing mattered now except that he be allowed to act.

  He burst through the bunkhouse door. There were two of them in the room. He was careful, even deliberate, and then there were none.

  He hoped the noise of the barrage from the house had covered his shots. He did not even glance at the bodies on the floor. He went for the window.

  He could see two men shooting at the house. He cut them down without compunction. The smoke was becoming too heavy. He was beginning to choke. He went for the open window, climbed through, and crouched beneath the eddying smoke cloud. He took a deep breath and hurled himself toward the corral, jumping the fence. The horses were milling, but were calmed as he spoke to them in a reassuring tone. The bunkhouse was doomed, and rage caused nausea to clutch at his throat.

  He could hear Duffy’s men calling to each other but could not distinguish the words.

  He saw one of them crawling toward the corral. He shot the man, and for a moment he paused, on the brink that always thrilled him, the verge of action. The thrill was mixed with the fear of death.

  The steady firing from the house had not ceased. There were good people in there, the best. If he knew how many were with Duffy, it would help. As it was, he realized that his only chance was to try for the leader and finish him before his gunmen could prevent it. That, he thought, would be the salvation of the Crooked S, and Cemetery Jones, also.

  If he charged blindly and failed ... Well, he dared not dwell on that.

  The smoke came again, heavy, so that he flattened himself on the ground. His composure was severely shaken when a choked voice close by said, “Well, here we are again.”

  Sam said, “Damn you, Stubby.”

  Stubby grinned through his smoke-blackened face. “You think I’d let you go it alone, ol’ partner?”

  Sam could feel his eyes tear. He hoped it was the smoke. “You got Mary and the baby ...”

  “No good, if Duffy gets us!”

  It was true. Sam said, “If I could figure just where Duffy’s at, we could try for him.”

  “They’re looking for us at the house. They’ll cover.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said, “if they can see us in the smoke.” The smoke billowed, fickle in the wind. It was too chancy by a thousand, but it had to be attempted, Sam thought.

  Then he heard Duffy’s voice booming. “Jones is outa the house. Find him, me boys. Find him, and it’s all over.”

  “Got him!” Sam hissed. “Yonder in the trees.”

  “Shall we dance?” asked Stubby.

  “He’ll have those two fast boys with him, y’know.”

  “Seen those kind before, ain’t we?”

  “When the smoke changes.”

  “I move with you, partner.”

  Even if it worked, Sam thought, it would depend upon the Ranger regaining his senses to testify. He put down the rifle and took a revolver in each hand. If only he knew how many they had to face ... The smoke started to lift and it was too late to wonder anymore.

  They went over the corral bars together, then separated to make themselves a double target. They started for the sparse trees from which Duffy’s voice had emanated.

  Too late they realized they had bought trouble beyond their capacity to react. Duffy was there. And, in addition, Jackson, Magrew, and four riflemen were in the group.

  There is ritual to such a showdown. Sam shot Magrew with his left hand and Jackson with his right. They never had a chance to draw. Immediately he dropped to his knee and managed a lateral move. Stubby did exactly the same. Duffy seemed transfixed, his mouth open. Sam and Stubby took care of two of the riflemen, who were stupefied by the sudden attack and had fired over their heads.

  Stubby was laying down a deadly barrage. It was a war, Sam thought, and the odds were still too great.

  Suddenly there was a wild cry and a rider came from Duffy’s rear. His men turned and were shot down.

  Sam said, “I’m damned. It’s Maizie.”

  Duffy suddenly came to life. He threw both hands into the air. “I give up,” he whined. For a split second, Sam hesitated. Then from behind him he heard a familiar voice say, “No you don’t this time, you murdering bastard.”

  There was the roar of a shotgun. Even as the derringer slipped into Duffy’s quickly dropped hand, the blast caught him. It blew him to eternity in the wink of an eye.

  “I know that old trick of his with the little gun.” The girl turned her horse triumphantly toward Sam. “I told you I ain’t no kid,” Maxine Murgatroyd said. Her face was smudged with smoke and her new finery some the worse for its use this night. She jammed two shells into the shotgun she carried. “Gave him both barrels to make sure.”

  Stubby, delighted, called, “Where is everybody?” Those not on the ground, wounded or dead, had disappeared. Maizie sat her horse and said, “I had no other place to go.”

  Stubby, always the gentleman, said politely, “You’re purely welcome here.”

  “The baby,” Maizie said. “I kept thinking of your wife and the baby.”

  Stubby said, “Oh, my God! Mary.”

  As one, they turned toward the house. The dead lay where they had fallen. The guilty wounded would wait. There would be a time and place for attention to both. Maizie followed the group back to the house.

  They entered the kitchen to a chorus of questions from Pit, Moseby, and Francisco. In the general uproar, which, by this time, even involved Keen, no one noticed as Matilda came quietly down the stairs. She stood quietly, waiting for some attention, and when none came, she said, loudly, “If any of you ’spects to eat here today, you better take this young ’un off my hands, ’cause I do declare, he is a pure handful.”

  They gathered around a table in Antonio’s restaurant across from Duffy’s Place, which now bore a repainted sign that read STUBBY’S PLACE; Sam and Moseby and Ranger Keen and Maizie and Stubby and Maxine. Sam had been there too long; he was restless.

  The Ranger said, “Yep, right from the governor. Maxine Murgatroyd is sole heir to everything owned by Duffy.”

  “It’s a partnership,” the kid insisted, not for the first time. “Stubby was cheated outa the saloon. Even if he wasn’t, I couldn’t run it anyway and also take care of the ranc
h. Pit, he’s in on it, too. An’ I hate Sam Jones for not takin’ a share.” But she dimpled as she spoke that last.

  Sam said, “You might turn it over to Matilda.”

  Everyone stared. Then the kid spoke. “Damn. Sam’s dead right, as usual. Without her we might not even be here.”

  The Ranger added, “That Harvard doc, he said she could hang out a shingle any time.”

  Stubby said, “She brought my baby boy into the world, too.”

  It was a fine baby, Sam thought, although he had scant experience with those small animals. He had left the horse, Junior, as a gift for Sylvester Nathan Stone, Jr. Stubby’s carriage waited at the curb to carry him to Pecos and the stage to Sunrise.

  Antonio bustled. He was already a figure of importance in the town, which seemed to have come out from under a cloud into bright sunlight. Everything was fine in Bowville, but Sam yearned for Sunrise.

  Antonio said, “I got a fine basket of vittles for you, and one of my pies. Is it true Checkers is going to run the saloon? And Maizie, the gals?”

  “So they say.” That’s what they were all palavering about, bandying words back and forth like conspirators, even the Ranger joining in. It was clear that Keen had an eye for the kid, Maxine “Mac” Murgatroyd. Sam found that easy to discern. Stubby wanted only to get back to the ranch and Mary and his son.

  It would all work out, Sam thought. Pit would be the same great help in running the ranch when he recovered. Moseby was honest and also clever. Maizie was lucky in that the Comanches had been satisfied with Duffy’s strayed horses and had fled the country to attend the moon raid. She had managed a certain quiet dignity, a quiet acceptance of things as they were. She was now Raven Santos, attired in modest raiments, a force in the town. Yes, everything would be all right, for the time being at least.

  He said, “Sorry, folks, but if I don’t get goin’ I won’t make the stage at Pecos.”

  Stubby leaped to his feet. “Gosh, Sam, I sure hate to see you go. Come back real soon, you hear?”

  Moseby pressed his hand. Maizie—Raven—gave him her hand, too. The Ranger half saluted him. They all crowded the walk outside the restaurant.