Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  “Any man dance like you been around, all right. That lady, she got this town whoopin’. So she got us. Any time you get idee, we here. We know we here.” He was neither hopeful nor despairing, Sam realized, he was facing facts and accepting what could not be immediately remedied.

  “I’ll be goin’ along before I get you in trouble. I’ll watch you to your door.”

  Pompey chuckled. “Nobody figures to see me in the dark. Hope t’see you again, Mr. Jones from Sunrise. Love that name for a town—Sunrise.”

  He was gone without making a sound. Sam waited. The West was not nearly so harsh on black people as other parts of the country, but the line was drawn and Jim Crow persisted in too many ways. He thought about it as he made his way back to where he had left his horse. Black musicians, now, that would be something new in the land.

  When he was certain that Pompey had safely entered the hut, he still did not move. The sixth sense that had stood him in good stead on many occasions held him fast. There was someone moving stealthily in the area.

  A voice said, “That you Carmody?”

  “Yep. Dark as a bull’s belly with its tail down.”

  “Damn blacks. Damn greasers. Damn whores and pimps.”

  “Cap’s right. Keep ’em down. Way down.”

  These were not the blue clad youths training under Fisher. These were plug uglies. Sam poised, his gun in his hand.

  “You see Cap when Cemetery Jones was whirlin’ his woman around?”

  “She ain’t his woman. Yep, I seen him.”

  “You reckon he ain’t got her?”

  “Not yet he ain’t. Dunstan, maybe. Not Cap.”

  “Dunstan? The old man?”

  “He ain’t that old.”

  “And that wife of his’n, she’s a caution. Her and that pulin’ brat o’ hers.”

  “Trouble comin’ there. What t’ hell, we’re bein’ paid good. Best go on with the rounds.”

  They parted. One of them stumbled into Sam’s arms. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder to measure and hit him over the head with the barrel of his gun. He eased him to earth, drew a deep breath and made his way back to the main street. Eavesdropping had gained him little that he did not already know or suspect. It was time to return to Sunrise and make other plans ... and to watch over Renee.

  Three

  It was raining in Sunrise, and El Sol was deserted and the bar closed. Upstairs Renee sat with Peggy and Adam Burr. Young Burr had come west the previous year, raw, disowned by his mother, longing to find himself, to learn the true fate of his father. He had succeeded in all this thanks to the help of Sam Jones and others in Sunrise. He had inherited a fortune and entered the banking business with Abe Solomon—and he had married Peggy, the dance hall girl, and built a fine house. He was part of the New West. Renee knew she must confide in him.

  She finished her story and added, “We don’t want it to get around and upset the town.”

  “You’re right,” the young man from Princeton said. “But you must have protection.”

  She nodded toward the hound lying across the threshold of her door. “It thinks it can take care of that.”

  Adam knelt and picked up a huge paw. “This hound’s been traveling, Renee. It has calluses. The nails are down to the nubs.”

  “He’s hungry, too. Always,” she said.

  Peggy said, “He looks hungry right now.” She took a bonbon from a box on the table and proffered it. It vanished as if by magic.

  “One thing about him, he’s not choosy,” Renee said.

  “He’s so mournful,” Peggy commented.

  “His natural expression, I believe,” Renee said. “It’s always the same, even when he’s stuffing himself.”

  “It’s mighty peculiar, the way you described the shooting,” Adam said. “As if the dog knew of the danger and meant to warn you.”

  “I’ve thought of that. He attached himself to Sam immediately. As if he had a responsibility. You know Sam’s not partial to pets. This dog doesn’t care. I think he has Sam in his possession.”

  “True,” Adam said. “People don’t own certain kinds of dogs. The dogs own them.”

  Peggy said, “It’s too bad about George Spade. It’ll be tough to finish the house before winter weather now.”

  “Not that Sam will be too unhappy.” Adam chuckled. “Seems funny that he should own a home, doesn’t it? Sam the wanderer.”

  “It will not prevent him from wandering,” Renee said.

  “It’s in his blood,” Adam agreed. “I often wonder whence he came. Who were his parents? How did he come to find gold in this countryside?”

  “We’ll never know,” Peggy said. “He ain’t for talkin’ about it.”

  Her past was an open book. Orphaned in her teens, she had refused the alternatives of marrying a cowboy, waiting tables, or entering a brothel, and had taken the job of dance girl at El Sol. Not that she hadn’t gone upstairs, but at least she’d had her choice of customers under the patronage of Casey Robinson. It was Renee’s influence that had kept her wise and independent and ready for the love of a good man.

  The rain, which had been pelting against the window, suddenly slackened as it often did on the high plain. Adam picked up their slickers and said, “Time to make a run for it. I hope Sam isn’t caught in the storm.”

  “He won’t melt, not our Sam,” Peggy said, embracing Renee, donning the slicker. “See you tomorrow.”

  They were gone, youngsters on the threshold of life. Renee finished her brandy and looked into the mirror on the wall. The tiny lines at the corners of her eyes were deep; she was weary after a long night at the piano. Her worry about Sam, always concealed, also took its toll, she knew. Talk of the past had brought secret thoughts to the surface, memories she wished with all her heart would vanish. It had started deep within her earlier when the young folks naturally and innocently had asked if there was anyone she knew about who would want to kill her.

  She had answered the negative, which so far as she knew was true. The one person who might have wanted her dead was himself deceased. There were people who disliked her, a few who probably still thought fondly of her, and one who perhaps still loved her. But there was no one who had a reason to murder.

  She undressed slowly. The rain again began to assail the window. She peered from behind the shade at an impenetrable black night. She washed off the minimal rouge and powder that she daily applied with such skill. She went to the closet and took out a black robe with a scarlet lining and wrapped herself in it. She went to her table; opened a drawer and took out an over-and-under-derringer Sam had given her and put it in the pocket of the robe. She was too restless to go to sleep; it was stuffy in the room and she needed to move her body. She went downstairs and through the saloon, smelling the stale smoke of cigars, and to the inner heavy door and opened it and went through the swinging doors to the long veranda.

  The fresh wet air was a tonic. A breeze swept little rain devils along the open porch. She welcomed them against her feet and ankles. She walked slowly up and down, trying to throw off the track a train of memories that persisted. There had been her happy childhood, her music always to the fore, Europe during the War Between the States, her early blossoming into a beauty with all the pros and cons of that condition. There had been the man she could not love, a fine man, a powerful man, he who had the best intentions but was not for her. There had been ... but she determinedly stopped. She simply would not retrace the years of debacle, of flight. She had found a home in the town of Sunrise, in this overpoweringly beautiful country, among good people who accepted her without question. And she had found Samuel Hornblow Jones.

  He provided the perfect balance for times like this. His calm, laid back coolness kept her on an even keel. Even he did not know the fires deep beneath her surface, although at times she thought he suspected. He was a tower of strength for her. She turned and walked the other way and then for the first time realized that the awkward hound was with her. He was plodding along,
invisible in the dark, making no iota of sound.

  She said, “Dog, you are amazing. If tonight there were shadows you would be one of them, wouldn’t you?”

  The sound of the rain was comforting; the company of the dog was reassuring. She had not thought of the danger, which was extraordinary; she seldom if ever lost a jot of her wits.

  The dog suddenly made a sound, a deep one, from his gut. She was at the north end of the veranda of El Sol. She wheeled around and saw a figure leaping toward her. She saw the dull gleam of a knife in the darkness. The dog ran past her and a swinging arm just missed her throat. She put her hand in the cloak pocket and fired without drawing the powerful little gun. She fell back against the wall of El Sol.

  The dark figure staggered, groaning, and she took out the derringer and fired again. The man fell and writhed on the walk. The hound jumped upon him. He moved no more. The dog returned and stood at her side, silent. She froze, horrified.

  Finally she made her walk indoors and called for Shaky, who slept in a back room. He came with a lantern. He said, “My Gawd in heaven, Miss Renee, what’s goin’ on?”

  “I think we have a dead man outside.” She was faint but still in control.

  “Did you fire them shots?”

  “I did. The dog saved me.”

  He went out into the night. She made herself follow. The would-be assassin lay on his back. Shaky leaned close and said, “Cactus Joe. A damn bad breed, Miss Renee. Must’ve wanted to break in and rob. I’ll get Donovan.”

  “Yes. Get the marshal.” She was shaking like a leaf in the continuing breeze. The dog was close to her now and she felt its presence and it gave her the strength to sit at a table and wait. Shaky lit a lamp and went, hastily dressed, out into the storm. She walked to the bar and poured a stiff drink of whiskey and returned to her seat. The dog nestled close, nuzzling her. She spoke to it.

  “Now we know, don’t we? Now we know how Sam feels when he has killed a person. We only guessed at it before.” She shivered and gulped the strong liquor. The doors sprang open and Peggy and Adam came in, stared and rushed to her. “We heard what happened.”

  She said, “It had to be done. He had a knife. Dog was on him but it had to be done.”

  Peggy put her arms around her. “Sure it had to be done. We all know that.”

  “I know the feeling,” Adam told her. “I know how it is.” It had not been too long since he’d had the same experience, a green kid from the East fighting for the lives of others.

  It helped but still there was that shuddering in her. The whiskey settled her down as time passed, and the marshal came, and then Dr. Bader with his wagon, and the body was carted away and Donkey Donovan was asking her the question that she had been fearing.

  “If he was out to rob El Sol how come he jumped you with the knife? It don’t make sense, he coulda just waited.”

  She had her reply ready. “It was pitch dark. The dog went for him. He probably thought I was a man.”

  Shaky said, “Some dog. Don’t look like much but he acts like somethin’.”

  More people came and marveled and sympathized until she could have screamed. She managed with the help of the whiskey, told and retold the story until she was hoarse. Finally she refused the Burrs’ offer to take her home with them and was alone. She found hore-hound for her throat and bar jerky for Dog and went slowly and painfully up the stairs.

  In bed she said, “Dog, you took Sam’s place but oh how I wish he was here right now.”

  Sleep came through exhaustion, bringing dreams she would far rather not have had.

  Sam was wet right through his slicker. He was also dead tired. The rain showed no mercy in the black of the night. He remembered a cabin off the road a couple of hundred yards that he had seen on another occasion. There was a chance he might find it again despite the dark. He turned off the road. A few hours would make little difference. He needed time to sort things out, and he needed sleep.

  A dozen rods into the trees and he reined in. There was the sound of horses slopping through the mud of the road. Someone with a loud voice said, “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. Whoa,” said another. “What the hell we doin’? We ain’t never gonna catch Jones with a late start in this here weather.”

  The first man said, “And if we do, someone’s goin’ to get kilt, believe me.”

  A third, indecisive, said, “Well ... we’re gettin’ paid.”

  “Nobody payin’ us is fool enough to be out in this here black damn weather themselves.”

  “There’s a shanty up the road here a piece,” said the loud one. “We could stay awhile and say he got clean away into town.”

  “Supposin’ we got somebody trailin’ us?”

  There was a silence. Sam turned the black horse into the trees, off the weeded path. He drew his rifle from its scabbard and waited. The first speaker was right on the nose, he thought. If he was seen there would be some shooting.

  “I’m for doin’ as Babbit says.”

  “Well ... I’ll hang around and watch the back trail,” said a fourth voice.

  “Come on, then.”

  They turned up the path. Sam sat still as a statue. They rode by, three of them. He debated about the lookout, then relaxed. The rain continued to pour down in buckets.

  The watcher was evidently no more comfortable. He rode past Sam and on the trail of his companions.

  Now there was a choice. Should Sam follow and try to learn something that would help his quest for whoever was out to kill Renee? Or should he be glad of his luck and ride for home? There were several old sayings to mull over in his mind: “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Let well enough alone.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” A rusty, cracked voice said behind him, “Look before you leap, friend.”

  Sam said, “I’ve got to believe you have the drop on me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause you ain’t with them jaspers ridin’ ahead.”

  “You know something I oughta know?”

  “Mebbe. Mebbe not. You the feller they calls Cemetery Jones, aincha?”

  “Could be.”

  “I ’spect you know them bastids is after you.”

  “How do you know that?” Sam asked.

  “I been in that burg back yonder.”

  “You got a name?”

  “People calls me Beaver.” He chuckled. “Trapped a few in my day. ’Course that’s quite a ways back.”

  “Beaver McLaine?”

  “You heard o’ me?”

  Sam had thought the old mountain man dead years ago. He said, “Why, sure. You’re about the last of ’em.”

  “Jest about.” Again the rattling chuckle. “Got somethin’ to do afore I check out.”

  “I’ve got somethin’ to do right now, seems like. If you’re of a mind to go along.”

  “If it’s a mischief agin those bastids mought be I’d enjoy it.”

  A blast of thunder came and a shaft of lightning bathed the old man. Sam’s quick eye picked up the picture; bent, broad shoulders, beaver hat, buckskins, a beard. More than any men, Sam admired these conquerors of the Old West, these men who had walked mountains carrying their possibles on their backs, made friends with Indians, killed Indians, slept with squaws, trapped beaver, and sold it in Taos where they spent the gains on more supplies and much raw liquor only to return to the wilderness. They had discovered the West, and some of them had settled in it. Kit Carson had fought in the War. Jim Bridger had built a fort. Jed Smith had opened California. And on and on, Sam knew all the tales. Here was one of those heroes.

  Beaver said, “These bastids is hired guns, you know that?”

  “I didn’t reckon they were Cap Fisher’s raw kids.”

  “Fisher, he’s the one. Pays good for the bastids.”

  “Think we better go afoot?”

  “Yaas indeedy.”

  “My horse is hired.”

  Beaver chuckled. “Y
ou leave him with ol’ Mossy and he won’t stir a foot.”

  Old Mossy was a tall mule. Sam had heard of the mountain man’s preference for the tough hybrids. He dismounted. He said, “Long guns won’t be necessary, right?”

  “Sartain. Do we go straight ahead?”

  “Right up this path if it’s the right one. Which I now believe it to be.”

  There was another saying in his head which seemed to be full of them this stormy night: “Never judge a man ’til you’ve walked a mile in his footsteps.” He could never judge Beaver, therefore he led the way himself, and not without some trepidation. He had learned the Indian way of moving without sound but men like Beaver had lived it.

  He felt that Beaver was walking in his footsteps, all right, and tried to remember approximately how far the shack had been from the road. It was now certain that the horsemen had found it, otherwise they would be on their way back. If he was wrong there would indeed be a fracas, four against two and he did not know what the mountain man was carrying.

  Probably a Bowie rather than a pistol, he thought; they rarely carried short guns.

  The storm pelted them but Sam was so wet that it no longer mattered. His eyes were beginning to be accustomed to the darkness, for which he was grateful. He figured the cabin was about two hundred yards up the path and counted his footsteps. He had been right; he saw the bulk of the small, battered building where he had remembered it, two hundred paces, a bit more. He stopped and whispered in Beaver’s ear.

  “I can’t shoot ’em down cold. The horses?”

  “Keerect. The hosses.” Beaver slipped ahead of him.

  Sam followed. They came closer to the shack. There was no light but they could hear voices and the gurgle of a bottle being passed around. They crouched, all ears for that moment.

  Babbit, the loudmouth, was speaking. “Four like us’ns to get one man. I know he’s bad but nobody’s that bad.”

  Someone said in reply, “How many did he down, anyways?”

  A third spoke up. “Mebbe fifty. Why d’you think they call him ‘Cemetery’?”

  The fourth man chimed in. “Up in Dodge he kilt Doby Simms. You all mind Doby?”