Cemetery Jones 5

by William R. Cox

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Tombstone was fast becoming one hell of a mess when Bat Masterson and the Earps asked their old pal Sam “Cemetery” Jones to lend a hand. There was a man a day getting killed, the notorious Clanton gang raising hell, Apaches on the warpath and a legendary outlaw called Ringo looking to put Cemetery Jones six feet under.

  But Cemetery wasn’t one to refuse his friends, even if it meant going up against six-shooters, raiding Indians, and a cold-blooded killer out gunning for him. It was a mighty good thing Cemetery didn’t scare too easily because the showdown at the OK Corral was just the beginning in the war zone called Tombstone.

  CEMETERY JONES AND THE TOMBSTONE WAR

  By William R. Cox

  First published by Fawcett Books in 1990

  Copyright © 1988, 2019 by William R. Cox

  First Digital Edition: September 2019

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  One

  Samuel Hornblow Jones had his booted heels up on the rail of the veranda of his almost new house on the far edge of the town of Sunrise. Dog, his hound, was curled beside him. His first out-of-town weekend guest sat beside him. Between them was a small table containing whiskey and a carafe of water, together with the lightweight fancy tumblers containing the lower half of two strong drinks.

  The guest was a small man, handsome, dressed in tailor-made city clothing, mustachioed, picking up his drink with white, supple, soft hands. He might have been a banker, a broker, a high-class businessman of any calling. He was Luke Short, king of gamblers.

  “Upstairs bath. Boy to wait on you. Mighty fine lady in town waitin’ for you. Hosses in a stable, hay in a barn. Money in a few banks. Hunk of a gold mine in Mon-by-damn-tana. Who’d a thunk it back then?” Luke Short drank, wiped his grenadier’s mustache, and sighed. “No wonder you ain’t about to travel down to Tombstone and deal for Wyatt. Me and Bat are sure to like it a heap, but what the hell?”

  Sam said, “It might be fun. But I just got back from a trip across the country—all the way to New York and back and up into the north country. Need to settle down and stretch out a little.”

  “Bat says there’s all get-out to pay down Tombstone. Wyatt Earp’s runnin’ his tables, and he’s got himself a fed’ral badge because they couldn’t find anybody else tough enough, or willin’ enough, to collect taxes. And as if that wasn’t enough, he’s ridin’ shotgun for Wells Fargo. His brother Virgil’s town marshal. Morgan and Jim are down there, too.”

  “All the Earp brothers, huh? And Doc Holliday, too?” asked Sam.

  “Yeah, him, too. With Big Nose Kate. Well, you can’t have everything in this world.”

  “I hear there’s nigh onto fifteen thousand people in and around Tombstone,” said Sam. “That’s too many folks to be in one place in so little time.”

  “Silver takes more work than gold,” said Luke Short. “Gotta dig that shaft, crush that ore. Tons and tons. They got Irish, Welsh, Dutch by the hundreds. Tough, hard drinkin’. Suckers for Wyatt’s tables.”

  “I can guess what the crooks are doin’ to them.”

  Luke nodded. “Shame. Wyatt wants me and Bat to deal off the top, o’ course.” He laughed a little. “A couple drops in a bucket of blood.”

  “Well, you-all been friends a heap o’ time.”

  “Right. And he’s payin’ good, too.” The small man laughed. “One hand sorta washes the other in this wonderful country, don’t it, friend?”

  “I expect Wyatt needs your backin’ what with the politics the way they are,” said Sam. “The governor down there—Fremont’s a dunderhead. He’s Republican, but he appoints anybody his politician pals recommend.”

  “That’s what’s got Wyatt in a spot. But hell, I’m no politician,” said Luke. “Just so’s the money is good.”

  “Wyatt takes care of that family of his,” said Sam. “Still and all, he’s got plenty put away.”

  “He don’t buy many drinks.”

  “Don’t drink much himself, neither.” Sam poured again. “Still, a good man to side you.”

  “Like you say.” Luke absently removed a deck of playing cards from a pocket and manipulated them with one hand, making them do tricks that were against nature. “Man gets along best mindin’ his own business. But Wyatt stood by me in Dodge.”

  “I heard about it. Dodge is playin’ out, ain’t it?”

  “They got rails into El Paso now. So there ain’t many trail herds into Kansas anymore,” said Luke. “A few from the north, some local cattle. It ain’t what it was for sure.”

  “Won’t ever be what it was.”

  They drank, remembering the glory days of Dodge City when they had been youngsters. It was there that Sam Jones had the nickname “Cemetery” bestowed upon him. A stripling, he had been attacked by two drunken gunslingers. His remarkable sixth sense, his quick hands and sharp eyes, had permitted him to kill them both. Bat Masterson was sheriff then and had been a witness. Luke Short, also new in town, had been nearby. Both had backed Sam when the friends of the dead men had sought revenge.

  It was in those days that Luke taught Sam all the basics of the game of poker, plus the cheats used by card sharks. Sam was himself clever with the pasteboards but not in the same class with Luke.

  The little man had gone up the trail in his early teens with a herd of Texas longhorns and learned quickly that it was not his cup of tea. He toughened himself up physically but opened his mind to the future—there had to be something better than nursing cows. In Abilene and Dodge Luke had became fascinated with gambling. The hands of gamblers bore no calluses. Always a neat kid, he appreciated the fancy duds worn by that clan. He sought their company, willingly paid his dues by losing his paycheck time and again. He was a good-looking, likeable kid, and soon he was learning under able tutelage.

  Sam said to him, “I never could manage that double riffle. Show me again.”

  Luke showed him in slow motion. He said, “You got to have patience. You got to live with ’em, the cards. You got to sit by the hour. Hell, I told you all that before. Practice and patience.”

  “And the knack. Good thing you’re honest, Luke.”

  The little gambler shook his head. “If I wasn’t, chances are I’d be dead. There’s plenty can spot a cheat.”

  “And some that think they see one where it ain’t.”

  Luke grinned. “Them. They usually get the barrel of a gun against the side of the head.”

  “You’re goin’ to buffalo one too many and get yourself shot,” admonished Sam.

  “Never killed a man and never hope to,” said Luke.

  “You knocked out so many that some are sayin’ you’re a killer,” Sam said. “You and me, gunners.”

  “Why, ain’t two nicer young men in the country,” said Luke, raising his glass.

  Sam thought about that. Finally he said, “Time to eat when we start talkin’ this way.”

  They chose the buckboard and rattled happily along the short road to Sunrise. The sun had westered and evening laid a pleasant patina on the frontier town that had grown and settled into a useful and busy routine since Sam’s arrival just a couple of years back. T
hey drove slowly past the new church where Pastor Clayton Lomax led the choir in practice while his affianced, Missy Wagner, played the little hand organ.

  “Real nice,” said Luke Short, but he was uneasy, Sam thought. Settled, calm, modern communities were not for the restless little gambler.

  Sam shook his head wonderingly—since when had it been the home of homes for Samuel Hornblow “Cemetery” Jones? Not for long, he admitted to himself—and not for sure. Otherwise, why was he not married to Renee Hart, the love of his life? Why was he not endeavoring to start a family and become a member of the town council and engage in the raising of cattle, or blooded racehorses, or pigs and chickens, or all of these?

  One determent, of course, was the fact of his hated nickname, “Cemetery.” That in itself had driven him across country and back in an effort to have it wiped from public consciousness. Actually it remained to be seen whether he had been successful. There was a grim notion that by punishing those who had attacked him in the vain quest for glory he had convinced the world that it was not a good notion to attack him. At least there had been no incidents since his return from Montana.

  He pulled up at a two-storied building. Dog ran out from under the wagon, beside which he had trotted from home, and lolled his tongue.

  “New restaurant. Renee backed it. Feller named Franswa. French. Fancy but tastes good.”

  Luke climbed down and adjusted his cravat. “This town is sure gettin’ classy. I can see why you stay on.”

  “Well, I own a piece of the newspaper, too,” Sam admitted. “Put some money in it for a young feller. Ain’t makin’ a dollar yet, but it gives a man a feelin’ of bein’ home.”

  “Hell, Sam, you ain’t much beyond thirty, I know for a fact.”

  “You also know for a fact that this country puts age on you quicker’n you can say scat.”

  Dog was nosing at his bootleg. Sam said, “You go on around back. You know they won’t let you in the front door in this joint.”

  Dog obeyed with some reluctance, his long ears drooping. Inside the restaurant Renee Hart was waiting for them, wearing a gown designed far from Sunrise City, her hair piled high, her dark beauty a stirring ornament against the far wall. François, a sprightly, slim man dressed in black, fairly danced to meet them, stroking his long, curling mustache, talking in a high, effeminate voice, waving his hands.

  Sam said, “We are a little late, so you can start the wine any time Miss Hart’s ready. And she’ll do the orderin’. I haven’t caught on yet.”

  “Of course, M’siu Jones. Anything you say.”

  They went across to Renee, whose smile lit up the room. Luke was at his best—he was always a ladies’ man, Sam knew—and Renee brought out the best in him. They seated themselves.

  Renee said, mock coquettishly, “Gentlemen ...”

  Suddenly Luke’s smile faded; his gaze was riveted on the window, beyond which lay Main Street.

  Against the last shred of daylight a face was framed. Lit by the lamps within, it was not an extraordinary countenance—clean-shaven and sharp-eyed and topped off by a city-style flat hat. The man was no cowhand. In fact, his clothing pronounced that he was a member of the profession: a gambler.

  Sam said, “Charlie Storms, ain’t it?”

  “That’s Charlie, all right.” Luke’s voice was icy.

  “I seem to remember you and him had a little disagreement in Dodge.”

  “You remember right.”

  “Charlie was never such a bad one,” Sam ventured, as the face disappeared from the window.

  “Not so bad,” Luke agreed, “unless he’s drunk. Excuse me, Miss Renee. Let’s forget Charlie. Are we havin’ wine with dinner? French joints always serve wine with dinner wherever I been.”

  “Of course.” She smiled at the dapper little man. “The California wines from the monasteries are very good. The padres have been taking good care of the vineyards.”

  Sam said, “That’s what we’re comin’ to. No way out of it, we’re goin’ to be civilized. Like it or not.”

  “He likes it,” Renee confided to Luke. “He also likes to complain.”

  François came to them. He seemed always to be dancing. He bore wine bottles. A boy brought a bucket of ice. Sunrise had accepted this newcomer at face value—mainly because of Renee. François, who seemed not to have another name, had quickly become a favorite with the ladies. The food, Sam thought, was rather thin. It came by peculiar names. It was, however, tasteful and highly edible, and the softly lighted dining room was pleasant—easy on the nerves, some said. Newcomers and passers-through were impressed, and the reputation of the town spread as time went by.

  The trio talked as the courses came in casual turn. Renee liked Luke: He was an easy conversationalist away from the gaming tables—a reader of books, a traveler.

  When François brought brandy “on z’ house,” it was almost time to go down the street to El Sol where Renee played the piano, the elegant saloon above which she had her apartment.

  François said, “I may see you later, eh?”

  “Certainly,” Renee said. “You’ll have to learn to play poker if you’re going to live here.”

  François rolled his eyes. “Le poque! But it was invented in New Orleans.”

  “He’s right,” said Luke. “From ‘poque’ to poker, up and down the Mississippi. Different card faces, but the game’s the same. We’ll have to teach you some tricks, François.”

  “Ah! The tricks! I have already been cheated.” He winked an eye. “Still, I could learn to cheat the cheaters, no?”

  “Oui,” said Sam. “That’s what Luke taught me those many years ago. Saved my bacon many’s the time.”

  They departed. Oil lamps had been lighted against the night and the walks were busy with the people going their way, to the few shops remaining open, to El Sol or the other saloons in the outer parts of town. The stage station and the telegraph office were alight. The day was winding down, but the night was just beginning.

  “Oil lamps, oiled streets,” said Luke. “This here is gettin’ to be a big city.”

  “There’s a town thirty miles south, Dunstan,” said Sam. “It’s growin’ like a weed. We got to keep up with it. Rails, the county seat when we get a smaller county, all that.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” Renee told him. “Sunrise must advance or die. With the ranches, the farming, and the mines it has every chance to grow.”

  “She’s right,” Sam said. “Times they are a-changin’ fast.”

  El Sol, the high-class saloon, stood square as ever, the center of action. When they entered, the owner, Casey Robinson, was waiting at the end of the bar, the town fathers were at their poker table for the weekly game, and there were Saturday night patrons along the fine mahogany bar. Shaky and his young helper, Ignacio, were serving drinks as two modestly attired girls, primping in the reflection of the big bar mirror, awaited Renee’s music for dancing.

  Robinson said, “Luke. Been a long time.”

  They shook hands. All attention was upon them; the coming of the gambler had been noted in Spot Freygang’s column in the Sunrise Enterprise. The corner in the rear, where the poker game was taking place, became quiet. Renee went to the piano and limbered her fingers, running the scales.

  Sam said, “We had brandy at the Frenchman’s. Best Luke meets the crowd.”

  “You’re lookin’ good,” Robinson said to the gambler. “Ev’body’s anxious to see you operate. Give ’em a show for me.”

  “Sure will. Looks like you got a great place here.” Luke sounded a bit envious. The Long Branch Saloon in Dodge would be lost in the environs of El Sol. It was, Sam knew, Luke’s ambition to own a high-class gambling joint. This one could only have whetted his appetite. The wood was polished, the ceiling high, the chandelier aglitter, the back-bar painting huge and luxurious—Custer’s Last Stand.

  Robinson said, “We get by. But we don’t even have a faro layout. Just business from the countryside. Course I do bet a li
ttle here and there.”

  Sam said, “Come on, Luke. Meet the class of the town.”

  There was Mayor Wagner, Hay, Grain, and Feed; Adam Burr, Sunrise First Bank; Frank Nixon, General Store; Tex Tillus, TNT Ranch; and Morgan Keen from the Long John Mine, partially owned by Adam Burr. This, along with Robinson, was the town council. They were far from impressed by the presence of Luke Short, but they were highly interested.

  The time was passing—but had not quite died—when the gambler was the most important man of the towns. He was still not far from the top. He had the money, he often owned much property, he had political clout, and as much respectability as the banker or the mayor. Crooked gamblers had been known to run crooked towns, but not so often any more.

  Luke Short was the epitome of the square gambler.

  He said to Sam, “A class joint ... from chandeliers to the clean floor.”

  “Uh-huh. And you check your Colt right here.” Sam gestured toward the open rack at the end of the bar nearest the doors.

  Casey Robinson said, “I don’t see a gun on Mr. Short.”

  Sam lifted the tail of the correct coat. The butt of a pocket gun sat flatly against the slim flank of Luke. The pocket containing it was leather lined; the garments had been tailored so that it did not show.

  Luke said, “Comfortable this way.” He placed his weapon in the rack. “All right if I look at the card game?”

  “Try and keep you away. Casey, introduce him to the bunch, will you?”

  “Proud to.”

  Sam lingered at the piano. He smiled fondly down at Renee. “He’ll be in the game before you can say scat.”

  “Well, our folks can’t lose much at dollar stakes.” She played a sprightly rag learned from New Orleans musicians.

  “He’s the one’ll probably lose. It takes big money to get him stirred up.”

  She played a bit of Mozart in dance time and a couple of customers danced with the girls. It seemed an ordinary evening in El Sol, but there was something hanging in the air—something electric, like the silence that awaited the approach of a lightning storm.