Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  This time Sam—aptly known as “Cemetery”—Jones isn’t the target. The bushwhacker who’s taken a shot at Renee Hart, the woman bound to Sam, makes a run for the small but dangerous town dominated by one Cyrus Dunstan. That he’d harbor a killer who went after a woman is something for Sam to think hard about. But when Sam catches up with his quarry, he faces a whole army of folks for whom the death of Cemetery Jones means their ticket to glory.

  One

  Samuel Hornblow Jones sat on the steps of the frame house he was allowing to be built for himself and pondered. How had he, the wanderer of the frontier, come to this?

  The answer was inside the structure explaining to a dubious George Spade, undertaker and carpenter of the town of Sunrise, how plumbing could be built to carry water from the creek to the kitchen—and of all things, an indoor bathroom. She was a beautiful lady named Renee Hart. She subscribed to magazines from afar that had all kinds of newfangled fashions and designs.

  Sam had acquired the property, acreage adjoining Sunrise, from Abe Solomon, the banker, as an investment. There was enough land to run a few cows, breed horses, even raise a crop. He had no interest in any of these projects. It was a pretty place, the creek running gay and cold from the hills, rolling grama grass, clumps of piñon and rock oak and pine easy on the eye. The trouble was it would tie a man down to chores.

  It was Renee who had prevailed upon him, asserting that hotel life was barren, that he needed room for his tack, which he had always stored at the livery stable, that he should have his own kitchen—where she could cook for him now and then. When he was with her this all seemed rational.

  Her heels clicked as she came down the steps to sit beside him. She wore a man’s shirt open at the throat, and pants made far from Sunrise that gave value to her long, slim legs. Her boots were high heeled. She wore her dark hair drawn back, caught by a barrette, and hanging to her waist. She was tall, broad shouldered with white, tapering hands. She played the piano in the class Sunrise saloon, El Sol. Where she came from no one knew or inquired. At the corners of her slanted onyx eyes were tiny, almost invisible lines divulging that she was not a girl—she was all woman.

  She said, “George will come through.” Her speech was eastern but softly natural. “He has the magazine plan.”

  “Can he read it?”

  “Now, Sam. Your house will be a showplace.”

  “All I needed was a place for my stuff and sleepin’ room. Adobe would’ve done it fine.”

  “Not good enough for a prominent citizen in a growing town. Even if he does spend half his time wandering around looking for trouble.”

  She had him there. His hated cognomen “Cemetery Jones” was truly earned. He had gained it in the course of the many adventures that he would far rather have avoided.

  “Last thing I want is to be prominent,” he muttered.

  “You saved the bank—the town. You made your stake in the mine on those hills. You are part of Sunrise like it or not.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with the town.” He had been on the frontier all his life. He had gone up the trail—and learned to hate that work. He had been a gambler, a mine owner, and briefly a lawman. He was past thirty, which was elderly for a man whose gun had gained him the nickname “Cemetery”, and he now wished to live quietly and enjoy Renee.

  He was about to tell her this when the dog appeared.

  Renee said, “Oh, the poor creature.”

  “Damn mutt’s been in the crick.” Sam had no great love for domestic animals. He did not even own a horse; he rented from livery stables.

  Renee leaned forward as the creature approached at a tentative but determined pace. It was brindled dirty brown, of no pride in ancestry. Its ears hung listlessly almost to earth. Its hind legs seemed not coordinated with the front pair. Its huge brown eyes had accumulated sorrow. It paused, patently purposeful, conning them with surprising confidence.

  The sun dipped toward the western mountains, shadows lengthened. The dog spun and growled. Leaning to pet it, Renee lost her balance.

  There was the sound of an angry bee, and the echo of a rifle shot rang out.

  George Spade, coming from the house, stood still. Another bullet struck him in the shoulder. He said, “Geez, I’m hit.”

  Sam shoved at Renee, who rolled under the porch. Then he was running, Colt in hand, toward the piñon trees. Ahead of him the hound loped now swift and knowing as an arrow from a bow. The lush grama grass deterred Sam but the hound never faltered on its appointed way.

  Sam found it standing stiff-legged among fallen piñon nuts.

  The sun did another fancy step and there was not enough light to read sign. The sound of hoofbeats going southward was far away. Sam’s mind went around and around a frightening fact. The dog’s head went down, its nose rooted, it looked up and whined.

  Sam leaned down. There was a rifle cartridge among the piñon nuts. He picked it up and said, “Dog, you’re spooky, you know that?”

  The dog wagged its tail. Sam went on, “It was like you knew that shot was comin’. Loco, dog, loco. It’s like you know this shell could mean somethin’.” He paused and lowered his voice as though someone might be eavesdropping. “Tell me this, do you know that shot wasn’t meant for me? Hell, he coulda got me; I was a sittin’ duck. He didn’t fire until Renee got in his sights. Only for her goin’ off balance there, he’d have got her, too.”

  He started back toward the house. The dog walked at his heels. He said, “You may be a haunt but I’ll tell you what. You get washed up and then you get the best meal in town. And as many more as you can gobble.”

  Renee met them halfway. “Sam, you could have been shot. George is wounded in the shoulder.”

  “All I did was follow the dog. He knew the way.”

  “We have to get George to the doctor,” she said.

  Spade was white, gritting his teeth, holding his left arm with his right hand. “I can walk. Just come along with me, please.”

  They went slowly toward the main street of Sunrise. The dog stayed close to their heels. Sam never remembered the journey.

  A look at the hole in the steps had told him that the bullet from the would-be assassin was definitely not meant for him.

  Someone was gunning for Renee.

  It had to be someone from her past, of which he knew nothing except that she had come from the East. She had arrived in town on the stage, unpacked her large, stylish wardrobe, and applied to Casey Robinson for a job playing in El Sol. She had settled in and converted the townsfolk to variations of the themes of the great composers, switching to lively popular tunes of the day at will. She was a fixture, beneficiary to local pride and admiration. Her affair with Sam went unnoted by the majority.

  They had gravitated together on sight. Sam had been the owner of the Long John Mine, had sold it, and was thinking of moving along when he realized he was in love. The rest was history.

  In the meantime there had been the troubles and then the growth of Sunrise, new houses, more businesses, a few kerosene street lights for the night-time. There was still raw scrambling taking place, of course. The rough element hung out in Rafferty’s Saloon. Progress was not swift.

  The bushwhacker who had shot at Renee had gone south, toward Dunstan, a smaller settlement thirty miles south of Sunrise. It was newer and rougher by far than Sunrise. Cyrus Dunstan, for whom it was named, was a tough former Texan, a grasping, egocentric man. He was banker, mayor, rancher, the whole shebang, Sam knew. That he would harbor a killer who would go after a woman was another matter. It was something to think hard about.

  The trio reached Main Street and walked to Dr. Bader’s office and hospital. At the same time Dr. Bader’s self-designed vehicle rolled up. It was a miniature Conestoga wagon pulled by
a gray cob. The driver’s seat was made comfortable with padded leather, and there was room in the body for patients unable to walk. Dr. Bader peered at them, a stout man often the worse for liquor but apparently sober at this time.

  “You have trouble?”

  “George got shot out at my place,” said Sam.

  “So take him inside.”

  They did so. Sam said to George, “You’ll be on payroll, you know. And send the doctor’s bill to me.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Spade. “Hell, we’ll never get your house built what with one thing and another.”

  “Don’t fret,” Sam told him.

  Renee said, “Just so you get the arm back in use again.”

  She took Sam’s elbow and they walked toward El Sol, where she had rooms above the saloon. She said calmly, “Someone tried to kill me.”

  He was not surprised that she knew. Most of the time she was far brighter than he.

  “Sure looks that way.”

  “He went south, didn’t he?”

  “Yep. I got a cartridge to look at. The dog pointed it.”

  The hound was still with them, had never left them for a moment. Renee leaned to pet him.

  “We have to feed him. He’s hungry.”

  “Looks like he’s goin’ to fall apart. He must’ve come a long way.”

  “With the shooter?”

  “Could be. It was as if he knew the shot was coming.”

  Renee shivered. “It’s a new experience for me.”

  They walked and the silence became uneasy. Finally Sam asked, “Who?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.” She said it firmly and he knew she was telling the truth. He knew she had a past that included pain; the bond between them was so strong that they shared unspoken secrets, it seemed. There had been a man, or men; that was certain. He had no curiosity in that direction. The present had been enough for them—until now.

  It was dark and Gimpy the lamplighter was doing his job. They came to El Sol and Sam said, “I’ll be visitin’ Dunstan.”

  “You will eat your supper,” Renee said.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “And help me feed and care for the dog.” She added, “We must give him a name.”

  “I’m no good at that. I got to get to Dunstan while the trail’s still warm.”

  “I know you have to go.” She was calm on the surface but there was turmoil in her, he knew.

  “You’re dead sure you haven’t got a notion?” he asked.

  “Sam, you know I’d tell you.”

  “I know.”

  “If I did, believe me ... It’s a scary matter, darling.”

  “More than that.” They had come to Tolliver’s Cafe. They went in and the dog followed them. Tolliver, a man of no nonsense, said, “Hey, I don’t allow pets.”

  Sam said, “This is no pet. This is a hungry dog. What he needs is a bath and food. I’ll just take him out back to your pump while you rustle up the grub.”

  “Now, Sam ...” Tolliver scowled at the hound. It went to him and raised its muzzle and whimpered. He said, “Well ... if it’s your dog, Sam.”

  “He belongs to Miss Renee and me,” Sam said. “Since he’s the first I ever had I got to learn to take care of him.” Renee and Sam went out back and pumped water. The dog was not overjoyed but did not fight back. When the mud was washed from him he didn’t look much better to Sam.

  “He’s ugly, you know that?”

  The dog barked. Renee said, “Not ugly. Just ... dog-like. A real dog.”

  “So maybe I wouldn’t want a pretty dog,” Sam said. “Where we goin’ to keep him?”

  “While you’re away he’ll stay with me. And very welcome he’ll be,” she said. “I’ll need the company, Sam. I don’t mind telling you I’m shaking, off and on. Mainly on.”

  “It’d be real strange if you were doing any different.”

  They sat at a table with the dog at their feet. Tolliver brought a platter of scraps and the hound sniffed it, then nosed it with surprising delicacy.

  Tolliver took their order of the regular dinner, roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, coffee and apple pie with homemade ice cream. Sam ate heartily, but Renee picked at the food and was silent. When they had finished Sam paid the bill, and they walked across to El Sol, the dog at their heels. Casey Robinson, who owned both the saloon and the hotel, met them, cocking an eye.

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “That is a dog named ... well, plain Dog,” Sam said. “For now he belongs to Renee. You got any arguments?”

  “Hell, no,” said Robinson. “I like dogs. He is a real dog, ain’t he?” The dog growled and took a step toward him. “Hey, I’m only kiddin’. Gosh, you’d think he understood me.”

  “Don’t bet against it,” Sam told him. Upstairs, the dog looked around Renee’s room and settled down, head on paws. It was a room she had furnished for herself. The bed was large and soft. There were two deep, comfortable chairs, and Navajo rugs adorned the floor. A pair of windows looked out on the street. Paintings unfamiliar to western eyes hung on the walls. A wardrobe had been built along one side of the room. It was filled with garments not purchased in Sunrise.

  Renee sank into one of the chairs. “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sam, I don’t want you to ride down to Dunstan tonight.”

  “I got to get goin’.”

  “Not tonight, Sam, please.”

  “The trail’s getting cold.” He thought of the cartridge shell that the dog had turned up. He took it from his pocket and examined it under the light of Renee’s bright oil lamp. It was a .44, and on the perimeter of brass there was a noticeable nick. The hammer of the rifle that had fired the shot was slightly damaged. Therefore it could be identified.

  The problem was to find that particular rifle in a country where every man owned one.

  She said, “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You got the dog.”

  It was lying with its head on its paws, ears trailing, eyes wide and fastened on Renee. As Sam spoke, its tail wagged, thumping the floor.

  She said, “That may not be a joke. He’s a special dog.”

  “Dunstan,” said Sam. “There’s somethin’ about that town. Like an apple rotten at the core.”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “Passin’ through, it stinks around the edges. It’s a good bet the shooter either comes from there—or stopped there on his way.”

  “I know you’re going there. I don’t see how you can learn anything in a place like that.”

  “Can’t learn anything stayin’ here.” He understood her objections. She was carefully hiding shock and fear. “I’ll have people lookin’ after you.”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t want to be a burden. People could be killed looking after me. I won’t have it.”

  He said, “Renee. Sweetheart, this is your town. You’re part and parcel of Sunrise. This is the West, not one of your eastern cities. Your friends will want to watch out for you.”

  “Please don’t bring them into it,” she begged.

  “I ain’t about to make an announcement. But George is wounded. I can’t shut him up. It’ll get out one way or another. George is no fool. He saw the bullet hole. He knows the shots weren’t for me.”

  She shook her head. He put his arms around her and went on, “All right. I’ll stay tonight. Let’s go downstairs and make believe and see what happens.”

  “It’s hard to make believe right now.” But she composed herself and applied rice powder and a touch of pink to her face. The dog watched her as though perplexed at such unnecessary adornment.

  Sam went to a closet where he had stored an arm holster that he had seldom used. He removed his gun belt and thrust his revolver into the holster, concealing it beneath a lightweight jacket. It was against the rules of El Sol to wear a gun within the premises, but he felt the occasion warranted it. If nothing happened no one would be the wiser.

  Renee sa
id, “I’m making believe,” and they went down the stairs and into the busy saloon. The dog never left their heels.

  It was the night for the weekly poker game among the town fathers, Mayor Wagner, Ted Tillus, Morgan Keene, and Casey Robinson. Sam said his hellos and Shaky the bartender brought a whiskey glass for him as he joined the action. It was a modest game played for fun rather than profit, dollar limit, straight poker, nothing wild, stud or draw.

  Renee sat at the piano and played her swinging variations of classical themes. Sam, through her instruction, had learned to detect the origin of the tunes. She was playing Bach, which was her sad music.

  Mayor Wagner asked, “What in hell is that?” pointing to the hound at Sam’s feet.

  “A dog,” Sam said.

  “What you doin’ with such a dilapidated critter?”

  “He likes me,” Sam said.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Out of nowhere into the here,” quoted Sam from a half-remembered lullaby.

  He looked at his hand. He had a four flush in spades. He raised before the draw, drew the black queen, and won the pot. He said, “Dog brings me luck, y’see?”

  “You always have the luck,” Tillus said.

  Sam had learned gambling from Luke Short, a friend from the Dodge City days now residing in Fort Worth. That was all anyone needed to know, since Short was the premier card man of his time. Sam could hold his own from table stakes to penny ante.

  Casey Robinson, who had held a high straight against Sam’s flush, said, “You ain’t aimin’ to keep him in the hotel, are you?”

  The dog got to its feet. It stared at Robinson, then waddled over to the piano and flopped down near Renee.

  Sam said, “Best be careful what you say around him.”

  “Humph, you wouldn’t be complainin’ if Sam wasn’t movin’ out of your hotel,” said Mayor Wagner.

  “Yeah,” Tillus said. “It’s a real ugly mutt, but a man’s dog is a man’s dog.”

  Morgan Keene said, “Since we’re the city council you’re outvoted, Casey. Though I do hope it’s house broke.”

  “It’s damn near human,” Sam told him.

  Robinson stared at the hound and the hound stared back. “I dunno. We got rules.” He got up from the table and walked to the piano. The hound bared its teeth briefly. Casey said, “Hell, don’t stay mad at me.”