Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  Sam said, “I’ll need a shirt and some underwear.” He turned to Fisher. “Maybe you can help. Some joker tried to ambush me in Sunrise yesterday. You got anybody like that around?”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Fisher scowled.

  “Anybody you could suspect? Might have rode out day before yesterday, returned today?”

  “I can’t keep watch on everyone in town. Consider what just happened. It will take time to clear out the rats.”

  “And you’re new here.”

  “Comparatively.” The captain talked in a clipped accent, not southern, not true Yankee.

  “Just thought I’d ask.” Sam selected a dark red flannel shirt and light underwear. “I’ll be gone early tomorrow, so if you got anything to say, go to it.”

  Fisher cleared his throat. “In view of the statements of the Olsen boys there will be no charges. Have you information as to who began the attack?”

  “A pimp. The big bastid who got one in the knee. He didn’t give me his name when he and his whore came at me earlier. Just gathered some pardners and waited for me.”

  “I think I know who you mean,” Fisher said. “I will take steps.”

  “You do that. Don’t let me keep you from the party,” Sam said. “You all prettied up and everything.”

  Fisher was attired in a gray serge suit with highly polished black boots, low-heeled, a white shirt, and black tie, very neat. Sam said to the man who was waiting on him, “I better have some low heels for this fooforaw, hadn’t I? Brown’ll do.”

  Fisher said stiffly, “I will see you later, then, sir.”

  “Like you say.” Sam turned away, dismissing the man. He knew he had made an enemy and truthfully did not care. The captain had been put down and they both were aware of it. He marched out of the store as if on parade.

  Sam found a fine pair of boots, paid his bill, and carried the parcel across to the hotel, wary with every step, knowing that the rats could come creeping out of their holes at the first opportunity. He got to his room without incident, and Dixon brought him warm water. He stripped and washed himself, rubbing his hard body with sensuous enjoyment. He was not one to put on weight, whatever the circumstances, and somehow he was always in top physical condition through no effort on his part. He dried vigorously and dressed with care. He went downstairs and out onto the street, still cautious. There was no one in sight. The City Hall building was brightly lighted and he saw a couple of the blue-shirted men patrolling. This was evidently a special night in Dunstan.

  A door was open halfway down the length of the low slung City Hall conglomerate. Before he reached it Sam came to a full stop, listening to music.

  It was music the like of which he had once heard in another place. It was slow, waltz time but different. He picked out a horn, the piano keeping the beat, and the strains of a fiddle—but an odd fiddle, dancing the tune, leaving the melody, playing tricks on his ears. The horn soared, then dropped to crooning. He responded to it as he had to Renee’s quite different rhythms based on old classics. He wished with all his heart that she was with him to hear.

  He leaned against the wall, drinking in the lovely sound. It stopped and he started for the door when it began again. Now it bounced, jumped, still a steady flow but with a different beat. This, suddenly he recognized. His mind went back to a trip he had made to Kansas City.

  He had been with boon companions. They were on a toot and had wandered into a high class bordello. There was a band playing. It was composed of blacks, up from New Orleans on the river boats, he had learned. They were playing music very similar to this, though coarser. Still it had been thrilling and he had forgone the whores to listen, drinking beer and chatting with the madam. What had they called it? Jass? Something like that and only the black people could play it. So this was what the Brazile woman had brought with her to charm the wild West.

  He entered the room. One of the Olsen twins was on the door, behind a table. Sam said, “Howdy, Sven, how much to enter?”

  “You know me already?” He was pleased. “Two dollars to listen. Five to learn the dances.”

  “I’m more of a listener but here’s five in case.”

  Sven coughed, embarrassed. “Your ... your gun, Mr. Jones.”

  “Oh, certain.” He unbuckled the belt. “Just keep it handy in case some of these people don’t like me.”

  The boy said seriously, “You betcha, Mr. Jones. And I’ll keep an eye open.”

  “Thanks, friend.” Sam had developed a liking for the twins. He saw Oley now, standing with a comely girl. Almost everyone in the room was gathered around a slightly raised dais upon which the musicians were situated.

  He could see them plainly, the horn player, the man at the piano and the violinist. They were neither young nor old, it appeared. They wore identical black linsey woolsey coats and pants, not well fitted; pink shirts, string ties, and loose trousers to match the jackets. They were clean shaven—and somehow or other Sam felt that they were lost. They looked, not stared, into the middle distance, as though not aware of the couples and the woman who stood with her back to them and addressed the gathering. There were not more than fifteen couples, Sam saw. All were dressed in the best of western fashions, the women with fresh hairdos, the men wearing jackets. They listened with respect. Several males of varying age were without escorts—the sad imbalance of the West still held, especially in rough new towns like Dunstan. Always there were not enough women to go around.

  He spotted young Dunstan, his right hand bandaged, pawing a tall red-haired girl who slapped at him and shoved him away. Cy Dunstan and his wife were in the foreground.

  Vera Brazile said, “You are doing well. I know this music and the beat are different from anything you ever heard, but you have the satisfaction of knowing you are the first in the West to hear it, to respond to it. Now we will have another waltz, this one a bit faster. Remember to pivot. The pivot is the soul of the swift waltz, the height of gracefulness.”

  Sam had edged near to the musicians. Vera Brazile saw him, and as the little band began to play she made her way swiftly to him.

  “Mr. Jones. Are you here to listen? Or to learn?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Indeed.” She dimpled at him. She was flirting while Dunstan’s best people watched. He caught a glimpse of Fisher out of the corner of his eye and saw him flinch.

  “Always willin’ to learn,” Sam said.

  She lifted a slim hand to the black men and they began to play Swanee River with a lilting bounce. She held out her arms and said, “Nice and easy at first, please.”

  Sam said, “Always.” He held her firmly a few inches away and began to waltz. The Dunstan people, all eyes, gave way.

  Miss Brazile said, “My goodness, gracious. What have we here?”

  Sam said, “Dancin’s my life.”

  “I should say so.” She was truly graceful, light as a feather. He pivoted once, twice, three times. Then he bent her over in a dip and heard her gasp as his knee went in between her legs. Straightening, he did glide steps almost the length of the floor. The others were barely moving or not moving at all, agape at the exhibition. He went into the reverse pivot that Renee had patiently taught him and the woman spoke again.

  “They said you are a gunfighter.”

  “Dancin’ goes with gunfights,” he said. “Got to be quick on your feet, y’see?”

  “I see a lot.” She was slightly out of breath. “I see a man of many parts.”

  “I see the best dancer I’ve ever met,” he told her.

  As they came abreast of the tiny bandstand he saw that the piano player was grinning at him, nodding. He winked and slowed the pace, asking, “Those musicians. Where’d you get ’em?”

  There was just a tiny hesitation before she replied, “Why, New Orleans, of course. That’s where it begins, the music of the black men, the Creoles—from Africa for all I know. It is so exciting—and I’ve taught them to play for me.”

  “You did good.” They were m
aking a turn at the corner of the floor when he saw the fancy boot extended in their path. He sidestepped, whirling the lady, then came back stamping hard.

  The young Dunstan let out a howl of pain. The dancers hesitated, stopped. The music went on. Vera Brazile said in a suddenly hard voice, “Go on. Dance. Daniel has been impolite again, that’s all.”

  The red-haired girl who had been partnered with the Dunstan boy said plainly, “He tried to trip Mr. Jones.”

  Mayor Dunstan lumbered five surprisingly quick steps. He swung a heavy arm, backhanding his son across the face. He said for all to hear, “Git home, you fool. I had enough of you lately.”

  Mrs. Dunstan pattered over to her boy, clasped his arm, and cried, “You come with me, honey baby. I’ll take care of you if your father won’t.”

  Kid Dunstan was led out of the hall holding his twice-damaged jaw. A slight titter rent the air. Captain Fisher stared coldly at the offenders but did not follow the departing pair.

  Vera Brazile said to Sam, “Excuse me. I must take over now. You have to keep a strong hand on these folk.”

  “If anyone can do it, you sure can,” he told her.

  “Now, folks, please.” There was a sharp, commanding undertone in her voice. She could handle these people all right, he thought. The chatter ceased. She lined them up as though they were rookies in a frontier fort.

  Sam edged toward the musicians, who waited, straight faced, like black statues. He said, “That’s great music.”

  They did not speak. Their attention was full upon Vera Brazile, he recognized. He said, “Hey, I like it a heap.”

  Still there was no response. The thin, red-haired girl who had been paired with the Dunstan boy slid away from an expectant partner and came to Sam’s side. She said, “They don’t talk to nobody. She’s got them and everybody else buffaloed.”

  “Buffaloed?”

  “Right. My pappy owns the hotel. You better get outa town tonight, Sam Jones.”

  “You reckon?”

  “We like your style. Sven and Oley, too.”

  “Glad to hear that. What seems to be the danger?”

  “If you don’t know that you ain’t Cemetery Jones,” she said flatly. She went across the floor and lined up with Oley Olsen.

  Sam saw that Sven Olsen was closing the accounts for the night and joined him. He asked, “Who’s the gal with the carrot top?”

  “That’s Cassie Dixon. From the hotel. She’s okay.”

  “It figures. You know anything I don’t?”

  “I heard a thing or two. Best you should vamoose quick as you can.” Sven spoke in an undertone. Couples were lining up, and Vera Brazile was in full charge as the music began again, a lively beat to distract the gathering from the fracas begun by the mayor’s offspring. “The Kid’s been shootin’ off his mouth. His mama can’t hold him down.”

  “Does he hang out with that bunch of trash in the streets?”

  “Well ... he’s got a woman he sees.” Sven was uncomfortable. “You know how it is. We don’t mess with nice gals.”

  “I see.” The old customs held, even in Dunstan. “Thanks, Sven. I appreciate it.”

  “We might could help you get outa town.”

  “Damn decent of you.” Sam grinned. “Always been able to manage my own self.”

  They parted, Sven going to his brother, claiming the red-haired girl for his chance at a dancing lesson. Sam went back to the bandstand. The music fascinated him. He tried to fit his private little tune to the rhythm, “A man can kill another man—and still be on the level—but woe and shame will come to him—who sells out to the devil.” It worked if he listened very closely. It flitted across his mind that one of those he had cut down in defense that night might die of infection. He might never know. It was best he did not ever find out.

  He watched the dancers. Mayor Dunstan, like so many big, heavy men, was light on his feet, almost graceful. Cap Fisher was stiff as a board. The red-haired Cassie was probably the best of them all, moving with sinewy certainty. Sven was clumsy but earnest. All in all the people of the town were doing well, Sam thought. Now the notion of a cotillion was not farfetched. Vera Brazile was a drill master. He lingered near the music, keeping a low profile. In a short time the musicians began to play “Auld Lang Syne” and the dance lesson was over. Mayor Dunstan spotted Sam and approached him.

  “I apologize for that consarned son of mine. Still and all, you spilled a lot of blood around town, Sam Jones.”

  “Not as much as could be.”

  “Cap told me. I ain’t sayin’ it warn’t necessary. I’m just sayin’ we ain’t completely got aholt of things yet. Back-shootin’—you already was bushwhacked once, nearly. Know what I mean?”

  “I’ll be sayin’ adios,” Sam said.

  “Come again ... Well, I dunno. You ain’t made many friends.”

  “Time’ll tell.”

  Sam retrieved his gun from Sven, who was in charge of closing up as well. The red-haired Cassie Dixon also lingered. It seemed Oley was to walk her home.

  Sam asked, “Where do they keep the musicians?”

  “In a rat hole down in the dirty section of town,” Cassie said. “They don’t get to do anything unless she tells ’em they can, but she feeds ’em good and gives ’em booze.”

  “Well, they’re black, y’see,” Oley said defensively. “We only got a couple of black people livin’ here. They stay with the Mexes and some drunk Injuns and ... the rest.”

  “The nice folks who jumped me?”

  “Well ... yeah.”

  Sam waited until Sven had locked up, then joined them on the walk to the hotel.

  He left them to go into the lobby. Dixon was half asleep behind his desk. Sam asked for his bill, paid it.

  “Leavin’ early?” asked the hotel man.

  “Advised to leave tonight,” Sam told him.

  “I believe that’s smart.”

  “Could be.” He went to his room and packed. He took his gear to the livery stable, roused the owner, and gave him money. He saddled up and rode down the main stem toward Sunrise.

  He was glad the night was dark, the moon hidden behind black storm clouds. He came to a copse of trees and pulled off the road. He waited long enough to be satisfied that he was not followed, then turned back. When he came to Dunstan again he rode to the street where the Olsens dwelt. There were no lights on in the house. He tied up to a convenient sapling and walked back to the main street. There were lights only in the section he sought, poverty row. From two saloons and several hovels came noise. There were people suffering from his gunfire hereabouts, he knew. He moved silently and quietly, occasionally looking carefully into windows.

  At last he heard the music, muted, coming through a window pasted up with newspapers. He listened to the wail of the trumpet and the soft melancholy sound of the fiddle, feeling that which the black men were telling each other, of their hopelessness not quite complete, of what they longed for but could not demand. When they paused he went to a door through which slits of light shone and knocked, calling, “It’s Sam Jones from Sunrise.”

  There was a long pause. Then a voice asked, “What you want, man from Sunrise?”

  “To talk about your music,” he said.

  The light went out, a bass voice cried, “Go ’way, white man. We don’t talk to nobody!”

  Immediately a smaller voice whispered, “Walk away, white man. Stop by the tree.”

  Sam obeyed. There was a lone, skinny tree a hundred feet away from the hut. He waited. After a few minutes a dark figure sidled up to him and said, “I’se Pompey.”

  “The piano player,” Sam guessed.

  “Right.” He pronounced it “rat”.

  “You gave me a sorta sign.”

  “Had t’ grin, you and the boss lady gallivantin’.”

  “Where you boys from, anyway?”

  “New y’Orleans.”

  “She pick you up there?”

  “Uh-uh. River boat. Promised us big money, h
er did.”

  “She told me she found you in New Orleans,” Sam said.

  “She tells lots of folk that.”

  “How come you’re tied up here in this joint?”

  “She say no money yet. Later. She say stay down, don’t talk to nobody. She say she make us rich,” Pompey told him.

  “But all she gives you is vittles and booze.”

  “How you know dat?”

  “Someone told me. It’s a small town.”

  Sam listened, thought he heard movement in the pitch dark. He found the elbow of the piano player and led him back the way he had come and around to the other side of the cabin.

  The piano player whispered, “You got cat eyes, white man. I never seed a white man with cat eyes befo’ now.”

  “Case of knowin’ where you are,” Sam told him. “Cap Fisher, now, where’s he from?”

  “Gawd knows. Army fo’ sure. He here befo’ we got here.”

  But not long before, Sam thought. He was trying to piece them together, the two newcomers who had taken over a big part of the town of Dunstan. Again Sam heard a sound in the darkness. He waited, straining his ears. Someone went to the door of the hut and called, “You blacks all tucked in there?”

  The bass voice replied, “Yessuh.” Footsteps retreated.

  Sam said, “They do that to you every night?”

  “Mos’ every. She don’ want us to git away. How we gonna do dat is another hoss from a diff’rent stable.”

  “Where would you go? Best to stick it out awhile,” Sam said. He thought of El Sol in Sunrise and how Renee could have a little back-up band and more time to herself—and for him.

  “What’s to be’s to be. We got our music.”

  “What do you call it—the music?”

  “We don’ call it nothin’. We just plays it. It’s what we got. Jeb, he blows the horn. Hambone, he fiddles. A banjo, we got it all. Couldn’t get Jazzbo, he got knifed.”

  “You boys carry razors?”

  “How do you know that? Don’ you tell nobody.”

  “I’ve been around,” Sam told him. “Keep ’em sharp and maybe somethin’ will turn up.”