Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  The dog slowly rose. It took two wobbly steps and rubbed against Robinson’s leg, then returned to its place at Renee’s feet. Robinson scratched his head.

  “Hell—’scuse me, Miss Renee—can he talk, too?”

  “Not yet,” Sam told him. “We’re workin’ on that.”

  Now everyone was laughing and making conversation about Sam’s peculiar dog. Renee broke into “Camptown Races” and the girls—there were two, Betsy and Rita, who did not go upstairs but might be persuaded to go elsewhere with a good customer—were soon whirling around as the poker game continued. Music hath charms, and all, thought Sam. He had a bit of music within him, he had found, without the ability to give it voice. It was nice, having music. The dog’s tail beat the barroom floor, keeping perfect time.

  Adam Burr, the Jerseyite turned western bank officer, and his wife, Peggy, entered and joined the throng circling the floor. It was, after all, Saturday night, Sam remembered. He watched the young couple fondly; they were as close to family as he owned. The hand was stud poker, and he idly threw in a call against Casey Robinson’s pair of queens showing and got a quick raise. He met the raise, drew an ace to match one in the hole, and again the hotel owner bit the dust.

  Robinson did not holler. He leaned over and stared into the eyes of the hound and said, “Hey, now, no hard feelin’s, huh?”

  The dog stuck out its long tongue and seemed to actually grin. Robinson sighed. “Guess it’ll take time.”

  Sam said to the dog, “He owns the joint. Be nice to the man.”

  Robinson won the next two hands. Now everyone wanted to pet the hound, who retreated beneath Sam’s chair and snapped at all advancers until they good-naturedly ceased.

  The music stopped. Peggy Burr went to Renee, and Adam came to pat Sam’s shoulder and be introduced to the hound.

  “Ha’nted, it is,” said Robinson. “You should name it Ha’nt.”

  “No way,” said Sam. “Name of Dog, just plain Dog. Answers to that, seems to like it.”

  Adam Burr, once of Princeton University in New Jersey, said, “It is certainly Sam’s dog and his prerogative to name it.”

  So that was decided. The dance ended, the customers returned to the bar or to tables, at one of which Renee and the Burrs seated themselves with libations.

  Into this peaceful scene burst three young men, swaggering to the bar. That they were strangers, that Marshal Donovan had not encountered them on his rounds was proven by the fact that they wore guns at their belts. They also wore long stemmed spurs that jingle-jangle-jingled and fancy shirts and very tight Levis and two-toned boots not fit to ride a range. They shoved their way to the bar and one immediately recognized as the leader, a husky blond youth, demanded loudly, “Hey, where’s the music and the gals?” as he threw a gold piece on the mahogany.

  The hound came awake and was on its feet, pointing. Sam said, “Down, Dog. This ain’t your play.”

  The dog remained stiff and ready. There was a shocked silence in the saloon.

  Shaky steadied his palsied hands on the bar and said, “You check your guns in this here town, pilgrim.”

  “You mean we got the only guns in the joint? Hiyu!” The blond youth yanked out a long barreled, pearl handled Colt .45 and fired a shot into the ceiling, bawling, “Now let’s get this party started, people!”

  Sam turned in his chair. No one actually saw him draw. The fancy revolver flew out of the stranger’s hand. He spun around, howling in pain. Sam fired a second shot. It took off one of the fancy spurs. The stranger staggered, and by that time Adam Burr had crossed the room. When the offender came around, Adam hit him with a perfect right cross to the jaw, knocking him sliding to the floor.

  The remaining two, who upon closer examination turned out to be identical twins, cried in unison, “Not us! We told the Kid not to start somethin’.”

  Marshal Donkey Donovan came through the door. “What in tarnation’s goin’ on here? Can’t I turn my back without some clown actin’ up?”

  Mayor Wagner said, “No problem, Marshal. Jail’s empty so far as I know.”

  The twins howled, “Not us. Please, we don’t mean no harm.”

  Donovan snarled, “What’s your name?”

  “Olsen,” they chorused. “Oley and Sven. Olsen. We’re from Dunstan.”

  “That figures,” the marshal said. “And who’s he?”

  “Kid Dunstan. The mayor’s son. He had too much booze. We told him.”

  Their voices blended. They held their hands shoulder high, blinking.

  Sam was reloading his gun. “Dunstan, huh? Maybe it’s best I took him home tomorrow, since I’m goin’ that way.”

  “Better you than me,” said the mayor. “Why do you want to visit that hell hole?”

  Sam dissembled. “Just a notion. Wake him up. Put him away. Fine him and I’ll take him over.”

  “Best way,” agreed Wagner. “Fifty dollars and damages.”

  The big blond kid was sitting up, rubbing his jaw, staring wildly around. Donovan dragged him to his feet. He mumbled, “My old man’ll getcha for this. I was only funnin’. He’ll getcha, wait and see.”

  The marshal shook him and said, “Yeah. You tell your old man Cemetery Jones only shot away your gun and your spur and he’ll send thanks to heaven.”

  “I don’t care who ...” He stopped and gulped, staring at Sam. “Uh—Cemetery Jones?”

  “Now he can brag all over his dirty little town about how he faced Sam. Shoulda shot his butt off,” Wagner said.

  The twins now pleaded, “Can we go to jail with him? His paw’ll kill us if we come home without him.”

  “If you can pay for your night’s lodgin’,” Donovan said. “No free beds for the likes of you.”

  “We’ll pay. We’ll be right glad to pay,” they chorused.

  “That’s a vaudeville act,” Renee said. “They should go on the stage.”

  “It’s a rare phenomenon,” Adam Burr said. “Twins who think in tandem. But it’s a matter of record that they exist.”

  “Yeah. There they are,” said Mayor Wagner. “And there they go like little lambs.”

  As Donovan prodded the trio out of El Sol, Renee returned to the piano. The evening wore on almost as though nothing had happened. Not too long ago it would have meant even less to the citizens of Sunrise, Sam thought. Times were changing.

  As the customers were dancing there was the horn and the rattle of the evening stage arriving. Several citizens left to meet it. Renee took another break. The poker game broke up as Tillus and Morgan quit. Sam joined the Burrs at their table, along with Renee.

  In through the doors came a tall, thin young man. He wore funeral black. His collar, soiled from traveling, was turned backwards. He had a shock of red hair and was quite handsome. He spoke in a clear, resonant voice.

  “I was told I could find Adam Burr in here.”

  Adam rose and stared. “Clayton Lomax? Is it really you?”

  “None other.” The newcomer strode, bright-eyed, beaming, hands outstretched. “I thought I’d never get here.”

  “Wha-what are you doing here?” Adam took the hands, wrung them, turned to face the suddenly silent crowd. “This is a classmate of mine from school. He was Princeton Divinity.”

  “A priest and he’s a friend of yours?” Mayor Wagner chuckled.

  “Presbyterian,” said Adam. “He’ll have a cold beer, Shaky.”

  The newcomer was introduced all around. He sat down at the table and said, “I expect to be viewed with suspicion. I understand you have no church in Sunrise.”

  Adam said, “You know because I wrote to you.”

  Clayton Lomax rubbed his thatch of flaming hair. He said, reproachfully, “You didn’t tell me how rough it is in the West, you know. I lost my hat on the last stop. Town of Dunstan. Fellow shot it off. Didn’t like preachers.”

  “You let him get away with that?” demanded Adam.

  “Oh, no. I chastised him.” Lomax showed a swollen left hand.


  Adam explained, “Clay and I boxed some in school.”

  “And I’m not exactly Presbyterian,” the newcomer said. “I’m more—uh—nondenominational. Got the idea the Lord loves us all. If you know what I mean. So it seemed best I find a new territory.”

  Mayor Wagner moved from his table. “Could you teach school, Lomax? Kids, like?”

  Adam coughed. “Well, you see—uh—we thought, Peggy and I—if we had a child, there’s no real school here. So I wrote to Clay.”

  Peggy said, “Well, it’s true. And a church—it would be better than the Ladies Sewing Circle and all.”

  Mayor Wagner said, “You’re hired, stranger. A school and a church, this town can build ’em. Sunrise is gettin’ plumb civilized. Ain’t a soul in town this side of Rafferty’s Saloon won’t welcome you.”

  Clayton Lomax grinned, showing even white teeth. “Just like that?”

  “You’re in the West, man,” Adam said, delighted. He pulled out a fat wallet. “I’ve been saving a thousand dollars to start the church and school. And I’m donating the land for it.”

  The mayor said, “I’ll put up another thousand. And you’ll board with me.”

  Lomax said, “Whew,” and drank his beer in one gulp. “Adam, you were right. It’s a sudden country.”

  Shaky brought another beer. The time passed as people came to greet the newest addition to the town. Somehow Sam Jones felt lost. Church and school were not in his immediate ken. He accepted them as valuable but he was a stranger to institutions. The country was changing before his eyes in many ways. And someone was out to kill Renee Hart.

  She played for the preacher and he got up and sang “Nearer My God To Thee” and some joined in the chorus, but Sam did not know the words. The hound slept through it all.

  When it was over and everyone departed and Shaky was cleaning up, Renee and Sam went upstairs to her apartment. The hound followed, sniffed around the hallway, looked hard at them, then settled down, head on ungainly paws.

  Sam said, “You and me, Dog. Reckon we’re dyin’ out, all these newfangled things happening.”

  “A preacher who drinks beer and knocks gunmen about is a novelty but not liable to make you feel outdated. And we do need a school,” Renee said.

  “Certain.” Sam nodded. He closed the door and she came into his arms and she was shaking a bit. He said, “Now take it easy. There’s nobody goin’ to harm you whilst I’m alive.”

  “Oh, Sam, you know the next shot would have been for you. I just can’t understand why he didn’t get you first.”

  “He wanted to bag us both. The hound must’ve confused him some.”

  “He wasn’t bright. That doesn’t make him less dangerous. If he came from Dunstan there must be someone or something behind him.”

  “That’s why I’m goin’ down there tomorrow,” Sam said.

  “With those brats. I’m sure they couldn’t have anything to do with it. They’re too young and callow.”

  “Dunstan’s spoiled kid and the tandem brothers? No, they couldn’t be trusted to do the job.”

  She said, “I’m not afraid to die, Sam. That doesn’t mean I’m ready. And I can’t bear the idea of taking you down with me.

  “Who me? Are you funnin’ me? Nobody takes me down.”

  “Famous last words.” But she relaxed and went to the table and poured two tiny vials of the brandy she often received from the East. It was very aromatic, and he had learned to sip it with full appreciation.

  He said, “That dog, now. That was plumb strange.”

  “He’s one of us.”

  Sam had never thought of himself as peculiar. True, he had been through more escapades than was normal, but he had always accepted life as it came, asking no odds, giving none. It was all part of living on the frontier, he reckoned.

  He said only, “Maybe you’re right. It’ll work out. Things always do.”

  “In the end. There has to be an end. Very few people get out of this world alive.”

  “Nor takes anything with ’em.” He laughed and she joined him and he kissed her. When they were alone together it was always like this.

  Two

  Sam was awake at dawn, slipping out of El Sol by the rear door while Renee slept, obeying the customs of the time. He went to his room at the hotel and changed clothing, cleaned his gun and strapped it low on his thigh and tied it down. He walked to the livery stable and saddled a black horse called Midnight, a rangy, swift steed he had hired before. He had breakfast at Tolliver’s and bought cold food for the trip to Dunstan.

  Donkey Donovan was ready with the prisoners, who were subdued, acquiescent to every demand. The protuberant blue eyes of young Dunstan stayed upon Sam, watching his every move. The boys wore their guns and belts, empty of ammunition. The pearl-handled revolver was battered and did not quite fit the holster.

  The marshal said, “I should be doin’ this job my own self.”

  “They’re goin’ my way.” Sam shrugged. “No trouble.”

  Donovan winked at him. “Sure. Only they might get smart on you and get themselves killed, the way you are.”

  “Could be.” Sam returned the wink and marched the prisoners to the livery stable where they were forced to pay for the night’s lodging of their horses. Young Dunstan opened his mouth to protest, then closed it as his gaze fell upon Sam’s tied-down sidearm.

  They began the journey. As they passed El Sol the hound came loping and fell into their wake. Sam reined in. He leaned down and said slowly and distinctly, “Dog, you stay. You take care of Renee, savvy?”

  There was a long moment, a clash of wills. Then the dog lowered its head, turned, and went back to the saloon. Its tail however, did not drag, and it did not look back at Sam, behavior quite unlike that of a hound who has been reproved.

  Sam caught up with the prisoners who rode mustangs, he noted, ordinary cattle horses. He rode far enough behind to evade the cloud of dust from the trio, leaving them to their own devices, having no desire to speak with them. He and young Dunstan were eons apart, not only in age but in fundamentals, he knew. The kid was the descendant of a dying breed. If another killer didn’t get them they might survive; most of their kind had not in the hard days after the War. Law and order had to come, but sometimes it seemed to interfere with what a man had been taught to believe.

  For instance a small hurrah such as had been started last night by the Dunstan boy might have gone down with a laugh and a round of drinks in another time and place. Maybe even in El Sol a couple of years ago. Maybe he had been too quick to act—he often pondered his sudden moves, made without conscious thought.

  Now it was something people expected of him, he supposed. “Cemetery Jones”—he hated the nickname. He had acquired it in those other days and had faced men who challenged it—not him but the inference of the label “Cemetery”. He had killed defending himself. He had never been sought by the law. Yet he nurtured doubts, often, about the killing.

  The sun rose hot and bright, and it became noon, and he called to the youths ahead to stop by a convenient small stream trickling down from the hills that bordered the road. He passed out food, and the twins in their odd chorus thanked him, and Kid Dunstan grunted but ate like the others. Of conversation there was none.

  Sam studied the trio, sitting apart. They handled their horses well, unbridling, allowing them to drink and to nibble, but they lacked the facility of working stiffs. He tried to differentiate between the Olsen twins, thought he detected that one’s head was a slightly different shape and that they were not identical in size and weight by a fraction. He could not, however, tell which was which by name, since they did not call each other by name, nor in any other way. They communicated without words. Young Dunstan seemed not in the mood to speak with anyone, and Sam decided that might be all for the best.

  Soon they were on the road again. There was now a bit of traffic on the way, wagons bearing supplies, farmers riding hayloads, horsemen bent on various errands. Some were known to Sam, som
e to the boys. No one seemed curious. It became late afternoon, hot but with a breeze blowing. It seemed to Sam that the young men were tiring. They lacked the muscles gained by hard labor, he suspected.

  There was a curve to the road and the breeze blew up a dust cloud. Sam lost sight of his charges as he wiped his eyes with his rebosa. When he could see again there was a group of riders, four men surrounding the kids, the Dunstan boy’s arm waving.

  The quartet all wore navy blue shirts and flat black hats. There was an obvious leader, a straight-backed, tall fellow with a hard, square jaw and piercing dark eyes, all of which Sam took in with instinctive thoroughness. He walked the horse toward them, loosening his rifle in its scabbard.

  The blue-shirted leader swung around and faced him, scowling, “You, there. Stop and talk.”

  Sam said, “Talk about what?”

  “What is your standing? Are you a lawman?”

  “Not exactly. Kinda fillin’ in for the marshal of Sunrise,” Sam said easily. “And you?”

  “Captain Steve Fisher.”

  “You wearin’ a star?”

  “I’m acting in the interest of Mayor Dunstan.”

  “Lookin’ for the wanderin’ boy? He got himself in a bit of trouble last night.”

  “You fired upon him.”

  “Nope.”

  “He says you did.”

  “Captain,” Sam said, “if I truly fired at him he wouldn’t be here now, would he?”

  “That’s neither here nor there ...”

  Sam interrupted, “Take my word for it.”

  The twins exploded, “That’s Cemetery Jones.”

  “Never heard the name,” Captain Fisher said. “Mayor Dunstan will want to see you, sir.”

  “Well, it so happens I aim to see Mayor Dunstan. Should we get along with it?” The other three men from Dunstan had their hands on their guns. They seemed ordinary riders, very much of the same ilk, neither ugly nor fair. They did not seem aggressive. Evidently they had heard of Cemetery Jones.