Cemetery Jones 5

by William R. Cox

  Old Man Clanton said in a bemused manner, “Johnny, sometimes you come up with the damnedest things.”

  “Nobody’s right all the time. You’re a clever old goat, but this time you reached too far. You lost a couple of good men. Wyatt got the best of it. And the Apaches will be dancing.”

  Ringo turned away. He went to his horse. He waved a hand and rode for Tombstone.

  “He’s too smart for his own good, Pa. Always showin’ off,” said Phin Clanton.

  “He brought in a hundred head from Messico whilst you were messin’ up. Now git out there and start puttin’ the iron on ’em.”

  Phin and the others fled, fear at their heels.

  The old man scowled after them, then went into the rundown house. A black woman brought his coffee and he sat, planning, always planning. He didn’t mind admitting to himself or anybody else that he took his pleasure in skullduggery. His hatred of the Earps and all connected with them was profound. Now he added Luke Short to his list. Charlie Storms had been a fast gun as well as his top card man, which was another reason for putting up with Johnny Ringo, who was not only swift but a bit crazy at times.

  It was all a matter of scheming, using his head, he thought. Sooner or later he would have the power he craved.

  There was a knock on the kitchen door and, without waiting for an answer, Bull Baxter entered. He was a big man—big all over, head, shoulders, legs, feet. His face was square, his hair deep brown, his eyes wide spaced and coldly blue. The old man thought Bull resembled Benjy Clanton, the son who had been slain by Apaches in a fight over stolen cattle.

  Bull said, “You hear about Victorio? Raided the Ingram ranch, wiped out the family, kids and all.”

  “Gawdamn. Gawdamn Apaches.”

  “By now I reckon Victorio’s back in his Mexican rancheria with the beef he stole from the Ingrams.”

  “Damn ’em all to hell. They busted up Phin’s try at Earp and the stage.” Old Man Clanton waved a hand. “I want you to take charge in town. Ringo’s his own man. I need a gun in Tombstone who’s got the sense to listen to me and the sand to stand up to the Earps.”

  “You got him. Earps and ’Paches, they go together in my mind,” said the big man.

  “You can add Luke Short to the list. And Bat Masterson if he butts in.”

  “That’ll take more’n one man,” protested Bull Baxter. “Not that I ain’t willin’. But I ain’t got eyes in all four sides of my head.”

  “I know that. Just take your opportunities where you find ’em. You’re smart enough not to box yourself in. You been my numero uno some time, now, around the cattle and such. I’m promotin’ you to boss in town. Nemmine my sons or the McLowery boys. You report to me, not them. And don’t do anything Johnny Behan can’t handle. Just organize and report to me.”

  Bull considered the worn sleeve of his work shirt. “I’ll need some store duds.”

  Old Man Clanton pulled out a wad of currency and peeled off several notes. “Don’t stint none. Your wages go up to twice what you been gettin’.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  Clanton yelled, “Woman, bring whiskey.” Then he said, “Now by not startin’ anything I don’t include Apaches. Behan can handle that if we say they shot our boys. Private, that is, just to him.”

  “Right.”

  “There’s men in my way,” said the old man. “The Earps—Masterson—Luke Short. I want ’em out of the way. I want ’em dead.”

  Four

  It was a long time since Sam Jones had received two personal letters in one mail. He carried them down to the comparatively new Mario’s Tonsorial Emporium. Mario Novelli had come from Michigan to open the establishment, all spic and span, with good mirrors and two chairs. He had bought out old Hiram Evans and promptly hired him to handle the second chair. In the rear was a pool table for gentlemen customers who would behave themselves. Mario was a veteran of the War, and over one mirror was a shotgun and on a handy peg hung a Colt .45.

  Sam found Spot Freygang in Mario’s chair. Old Hiram was not present. Spot said, “Hi, you got mail. Any news?”

  Sam said, “Mario, top o’ the day to you. Yes, I got mail from Bat Masterson in Tombstone.” He opened the letter, read a few lines, added, “All hell’s to pay. Luke shot Charlie Storms and they had him in jail.” He read further. “Bat thinks I should go down there.”

  “Into that mess? They’re killing a man every day down there,” Spot said.

  “That man must be real dead by now.”

  Mario grinned, tilted back the chair, and began applying soap for the shave. Sam’s mind flashed back to a time in Dodge City when a fool named Bell had come at him, sided by two backup gunmen. Luke had cold-cocked one of them, Bat had shot down the other, and Sam had been forced to kill Bell. It had contributed a good deal to his hatred for the appellation “Cemetery.”

  The thing he remembered now was that it would have been Sam on Boot Hill had it not been for his friends.

  He hefted the second envelope. It was heavy, embossed, addressed in fine handwriting. Now he remembered a night not so long ago in New York City. This time the shoe had been on the other foot. A gang known as the Gas House were attacking two elegant citizens in the blue light of incandescent streetlamps. He had been able to rescue the pair with the .38 S&W from under his arm. James Gordon Bennett, the newspaper owner, and Philip Merrivale, had been duly grateful.

  The missive was from the latter.

  He said, “Well, here’s some good news. You’re goin’ to meet another newspaper owner and his friend.”

  “Bennett? James Gordon Bennett?”

  “Merrivale writes they’ll be out this way in a week or so.”

  “Holy cow! The owner of the New York Herald. Will we get out a special edition! A party. We’ll get up a shindig. Who can we invite? Holy cow.”

  Sam said, “Take it easy, Spot. It’s just a couple friendly gents I met when I was East.” He went into the poolroom. Junior Novelli was carefully brushing the smoothest, cleanest green-covered table in the west. He was a tall, handsome boy with long eyelashes and eyes almost black. He said, “Mr. Jones, your man Ray said I might work your horses if it’s okay. I’d be obliged.”

  “Whenever they need it,” Sam said. “You still want to work outdoors?”

  “I want to be a westerner.”

  “Lots of people out here never get on a horse.”

  “I want to go up the trail.”

  Sam said, “You won’t like it, son. But make yourself at home on my place any time.”

  When Mario was ready for him, Sam waved at Junior and got into the chair. Spot, donning his jacket, said, “See you later in the joint.”

  No matter how elite, Sam thought, places like El Sol would always be “the joint” to westerners of a certain age. Just as westerners of his time had a die-hard belief in the sanctity of friendships. Outside the town of Sunrise, Luke Short had always been his closest friend. They were never completely out of touch; each always knew the other’s whereabouts and condition of welfare. Now, Sam remembered his tortuous doubts after the shootouts in Dodge. To this day he had not come to grips with the onerous cognomen “Cemetery,” after all the killings he honestly believed were in self-defense.

  Right now he suspected Luke must be suffering those same doubts.

  And here he was, knowing about the consequences of killing another, residing in a model town of the time—and carrying his handgun because any minute some wild-eyed rider with an itch for a reputation, or some half-forgotten enemy from the past, might assault him with intent to kill.

  The west was changing, but the old order still prevailed: Each man must be responsible for his honor and his existence.

  The elfish itinerant piano tuner stepped back and said, “That’s a mighty fine instrument you got there, Miss Hart.”

  “Thank you,” Renee said. Then she sat down and played a few riffs of the music she had learned from visiting Negro musicians.

  The tuner said, “New Orleans mu
sic. You haven’t got it just right yet, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t. I was classically trained. It’s difficult.” She ran off a few bars of Mozart—played in ragtime. Her grin was impish. “That’s easy. Catching the souls of the black men is not so easy.”

  The calm afternoon in El Sol was broken into by a man at the bar. He had identified himself earlier as a traveling tobacco salesman. “Hey, why don’t you play somethin’ that makes sense, woman.”

  Now the calm became utter silence. The few customers remained very still. Shaky, behind the bar, poised for action. Time was suspended for the moment.

  Renee folded her hands in her lap and faced the man at the bar with cold withering scorn.

  Then the little piano tuner was darting like a cat, one hand outstretched to snatch the cigar from the drummer’s mouth, growling, “Mind your manners when you’re speaking to a lady.”

  Shaky had the shotgun in his hands. “Now you can get down on your knees and apologize, mister, if you wanta stay healthy.”

  The startled drummer threw up both hands. “Uh ... I—I’m sorry. I’m real sorry.”

  Into the scene came Sam Jones, preoccupied. He glanced at the tableaux and said, “Shoot him or let him pray some more, Shaky.”

  The feisty piano tuner said, “He insulted Miss Renee, Sam.”

  Renee said, “He said he was sorry. Let him go.” She smiled coolly. “The stage will be leaving soon.”

  “Be under it,” growled the piano tuner, with a wink toward Renee.

  “He’ll never sell another see-gar in this joint,” Shaky said as the man tottered into the street, unsure of what exactly had happened to him.

  “Renee’s loyal troops,” Sam said. “I thank you one and all.” He kissed Renee’s cheek. “Casey in his office?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  He dropped two letters on the top of the piano. “Look these over. I got a notion.”

  Renee picked up the letters. At the sight of the one from New York she quailed, then recovered. From around her neck she removed a small golden chain and proffered it to the little piano tuner. “My knight without armor. Please give it to your ladylove.”

  Flushed, embarrassed, he said, “I can’t—”

  “You can, and you will, or risk giving me offense.”

  The tuner bowed his head deeply. “Thankee, Miss Renee.”

  Then she wheeled up the stairs to her apartment.

  She sat down, reached for her Napoleon brandy, poured a snifter, sipped it, sat for a moment staring out the window. Finally she took up the letter from the East.

  Now the memories crowded, the days of her youthful rebellion from domineering parents, her flight to New York, and the years with her wealthy, kindly grandmother. Piano lessons from the best teachers, a performance before the President of the United States, parties where she was courted by the famous ...

  Parties where she had met and loved Philip Merrivale.

  They had been the couple of the season, of two seasons. He had not seduced her. She had gone to him with love, an adolescent’s devotion. He was older, he was clever, he was charming, he had humor and compassion, all the virtues. They played piano duets long into the night, they drank champagne and lived the bubbly life.

  Her grandmother had died suddenly and unexpectedly. There was a trust fund, but not enough to maintain the brownstone house and servants.

  He had not asked her to marry him. By accident she had discovered that he had been keeping another mistress. Her world had toppled; she had fled.

  Long ago ...

  She could not find it in herself to blame anyone. Coming west had been whim. There had been no goal, there was only the piano. She could live with the keys under her control and the melodies running through her head. She had long known that she lacked true genius, but the music nurtured her. She had changed her name and drifted into the town of Sunrise. She had met Sam Jones.

  Somewhere she had learned that Philip Barnes Merrivale had not forgotten her, that he had searched for her. The last thing on earth she wanted was that he should find her, that she should be put to the test as to whether the first love endured. Her past proved she was vulnerable, too vulnerable. There was Philip and there was Sam—the first love and the present.

  As if to prove her own discipline, she read the letter from Masterson first. Down toward the end she saw where Bat mentioned that Luke had a “crush” on Nellie Cashman, which was not reciprocated, that Nellie was “some kind of lady, taking care of them that need.” Renee had heard of Nellie Cashman in her wanderings: a mysterious Lady Bountiful.

  She carefully folded Masterson’s letter back into its envelope. Now there was nothing to delay her further from taking out the missive from Philip Merrivale.

  When she read she could hear the light amiable voice of the writer:

  Dear Sam Jones,

  At long last I find myself free to roam. Bennett and I have interests in the West, as you know. We will be leaving any day now and depend upon it you are to be invaded. One way or another we shall make it to Sunrise, the town with the felicitous name.

  Hastily, as I must pack, yours sincerely—and gratefully ...

  Sooner or later, she supposed, it was inevitable. She had known since Sam had regaled her with his experience in New York with the “two gents you could cross the river with.” James Gordon Bennett was known for his interest in the affairs of the western country. Now Philip was involved, and nothing could stop him from satisfying his lively curiosity.

  She could leave. She could make up a story to tell Sam and he would believe her. And because he would believe her, she could not do it.

  She had to face it, she knew. She would have to go through with whatever transpired.

  Renee drank the brandy in one gulp. Then she giggled like a schoolgirl. She who had shot and killed two men was scared, true, but to her amazement she was also relieved.

  When Sam arrived she was fully prepared. She poured brandy. She hugged him and made him sit in a comfortable chair.

  He said, “If they’re after Luke they’ll also be after Bat. There’s too many of ’em—the cowboys and Old Man Clanton. And John Ringo.”

  She said, “I know, dear.”

  He said, “I got to go down there.”

  “Of course, you do.” She smiled.

  Sam was puzzled.

  She said, “I’m going with you.”

  “Not sure that would be wise. Guns going off down there. Nobody’s safe in the same county with the likes of Ringo ...”

  “I’m going to Tombstone, Sam. With you or on my own.”

  He regarded her gravely. Then he tipped up her chin with his finger. If he felt her tremble he said nothing of it. She felt the light touch of his lips.

  He said, “I can get Mario’s son and his wife to help Raymond at the ranch. But you got to promise to stay out of trouble in Tombstone.”

  “Maybe I can help Nellie Cashman. She’s taking care of the miners. The ones who do all the hard work, and get the worst of it when all is said and done.”

  “That won’t be much of a vacation for you.”

  “What do you want me to do, then, Sam? Sit in the hotel and wait for you to squire me around?”

  She handed him back his letters from Masterson and Merrivale. And by the grace of God, she thought, we may never all meet together.

  Then he was gone, moving like a member of the cat family, large size, going about its singular way.

  There was a time when she would have thought him an attractive country bumpkin, easy to please. She knew better now, she knew a lot better.

  How could she compare him to Philip Merrivale, millionaire dilettante?

  She asked herself and found no true answer.

  Five

  Bat Masterson, dressed to the nines, sporting a diamond ring and a stickpin to match, snatched off his bowler hat and said, “Miss Hart, I am plumb glad to meet you. Sam, you sure know how to pick ’em.”

  Sam watched with amusement as the w
ide-eyed Bat led Renee by the hand away from the stagecoach. “We’ll be meetin’ Luke at the hotel. They’ll take care of your duffle. Got people to take care of everything in this crazy burg.” Finally, as if in afterthought, Bat swung to clasp Sam’s hand. “Well, you old turkey buzzard. You’ve got enough dust on those clothes to start a bean farm.”

  “Long trip and a lot of trail dust,” Sam agreed. “Where do we go to get cleaned up?”

  “Just follow me.”

  The October breeze was cool on this high plateau, even in the noon’s high sun. They joined the throng. Miners, cowboys, plain citizens, an occasional woman dressed for shopping or marginally clad to raise questions, every sort of individual walked the street, going hither and thither. The metallic atmosphere was even more prevalent here than in other boom-towns, yet the air seemed clear and clean. It was high mesa country—overpopulated; the din was deafening.

  Sam said, “We heard about it, but it’s more’n we heard.”

  “This is nothin’. Wait’ll dark,” said Bat. “It lights up like Denver on the Fourth of July.” Bat had a cheerful round face and twinkly blue eyes, and he was still in his twenties—the youngest of the crowd that made up Sam’s generation. In Dodge City, Bat had been sheriff of Ford County at the age of twenty-one.

  They made their way to the imposing Occidental Hotel at the corner of Fifth and Allen. False fronts lofted against the azure sky. The lettering of ornate signs was high and unabashedly bright with primary colors. Sam couldn’t get over the endless racket of vehicles, horses, pedestrian traffic, voices shouting across streets, clashing music of pianos and fiddles soaring out of saloons, hoarse barkers hawking their whiskey and girls and gaming tables.

  Bat said, “Yonder’s the Oriental, where we work. Across the street is the Crystal Palace, where the so-called cowboys hang out. Busy corner, ain’t it?”

  “Frame buildings. Supposin’ somebody dropped a match?” asked Sam.

  “We got the latest fire engines yet made,” said Bat. “You don’t think the local gophers built this burg, do you?”