Cemetery Jones 2 by William R. Cox

Author:William R. Cox
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: colt 45, frontier life, piccadilly publishing, the wild west, outlaws and lawmen, usa frontier, westerns fiction, gunmen in the old west
Publisher: Piccadilly

In the dim reflected light from the lamp in the office of the jail, Sam listened to the soft cadence of Checkers Moseby’s voice. “You would think that a gamblin’ man would be quick with a pistol. Most of us wear a shoulder holster as you well know, suh. But early on I noted that men carrying short guns often got themselves eradicated in some foolishment, most often drunken. It also came to my attention that in the West unarmed men are seldom shot at.”

“Never thought of it that way,” said Sam. “True.”

“You give a red-blooded young man a revolver to hang on his hip and a few shots of redeye and somethin’ is bound to explode. Sooner or later.”

“It happens,” Sam admitted. It had happened to him, much to his annoyance and sometimes to his sorrow.

“A rifle, now, suh, is a thing of beauty. A rifle is for shootin’ birds and beasts, for food or sport. I must say, I pride myself on my ability with a rifle.”

“That’s just fine. If we had one.” Sam’s mind was on the maverick kid—the female maverick kid. Long gun, short gun, there was a time and a place for everything. He would be no good to Stubby or Mary or anyone else if one or the other was not provided soon. “Thing is, partner, if we get out of here alive, it’ll be with a six-gun.”

“Ah! You have me. But, suh, you are not responsible for me, now, are you?”

“You might not think so. Howsomever, if we do make it, there’s need for a rifleman to go against Mr. Duffy.”

“You don’t say? Is it the range war of which I have heard some talk?” Checkers asked.

“It is. Friend of mine owns the Crooked S.”

“Cattle. Ugh. I am, suh, a city feller. I ride, of course. All south’ners ride. But cows?”

Sam observed dryly, “Cattle. Longhorns. Different sorta animals. They run a lot. Then you eat ’em, after they’re fattened somewhat.”

“Of course. My error, Mr. Jones. Sounds somewhat like a skirmish is on its way.”

“And then some. Can you shoot from the saddle?” Sam asked.

“I can’t say, suh, never havin’ tried. Could be.”

“Then you better ride drag with me.”

“Drag, suh?”

“Just follow along best you can. If the time comes.” Time had been getting away. There was another man, wearing two guns tied low, in the office with Simon now, a mean-looking, low-browed fellow. Simon was gesturing, posturing. His loud voice came faintly as Sam motioned for silence and listened. He heard: “That damn Ranger ... Sure ... We got Jones’s gun ... You leave it to Duffy …”

At the high window came a sibilant whistle. Jones crawled up, Checkers giving him a hand. The revolver came through between the narrow-set bars and the familiar voice said, “Gotta run. They’re patrolin’.”

“Missy Mac, or whoever, you get yourself out to the Crooked S, you hear me?” Sam shot at her. “There’s goin’ to be a whizbang and I want you out of it.”

“Don’t you call me ‘missy.

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