Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  “I took his mother out of a whorehouse. Hell, there wasn’t much choice in them days if you didn’t have the dinero. She’s been a good wife. Plenty others I knowed did the same. It’s just she’s loco about Danny.”

  “Give him to me.”

  “Can’t do it. She’d cry tears enough for a river. Wish I could give her another baby. Can’t seem to. Now there’s the Brazile woman.”

  “Where’d she come from?”

  Dunstan said soberly, “She come with a letter from one of the biggest wigs in New York City. She’s got money, too. Says she’s got a mission. Civilize the West. Well, that’s just what the town needs. It’s kinda fun.”

  “Dancin’ around a hard floor ain’t my kinda fun.”

  “It keeps people happy. You know what I did? I sent notices to the newspapers in El Paso, Denver, San Francisco, wherever there’s folks wantin’ to move. Come to Dunstan, you’re all welcome.”

  Vaughn stared, then laughed. “Cy, you’re goin’ to get some fancy dudes all right. Every crook with an itch to travel.”

  “That’s why I got Cap Fisher and such as Babbit.”

  “Just you keep that Fisher away from me. I got a feelin’ about him.”

  “He keeps the young uns in line and serves to maintain the law. My law. He may be a stiff joint but he’s my stiff joint,” Dunstan said.

  “He’s trouble.”

  “What ain’t? I come here, settle a town, take a look at what’s been done up in Sunrise. I’m late. I get the leavin’s. So I work on it. One day Dunstan’ll be bigger and more important than Sunrise, you mark my words.”

  “What good’ll that do you? Way it is, you own everything in sight, you got your woman, you got your health.”

  “It ain’t enough.” Dunstan grinned suddenly. “Nothin’ ain’t never enough. Now you wash up and come in to dinner.”

  He pocketed the flask, slapped Vaughn on his thick shoulder and went to the house.

  Vera Brazile was saying, “I understand Mr. Jones has a lady friend.”

  “Humph. Plays pianna in a saloon,” Liz Dunstan said. “Puts on airs. Wears dresses like ... like yours.”

  “It’s a high-class saloon,” Cy Dunstan said. “I’m goin’ to spruce up a joint after the next shipment of ore from Tombstone. Got a mine over there,” he explained to Vera Brazile. “Made my first strike thereabouts.”

  “You do have varied interests,” she said admiringly. “You are one of the western barons, Mister Mayor.”

  “You got to learn to call me ‘Cy’ y’know. Got to be a bit western yourself now you’re here.”

  “Very well, Cy.” She laughed merrily. “I declare this country becomes more enchanting all the time. Captain Fisher was saying the same thing the other day.”

  “I ain’t too keen on Fisher,” Liz Dunstan said. “He’s too hard on my boy.”

  “Now, now. Daniel will grow up. He’s just going through his salad years,” Vera Brazile said.

  “Salad years?” Liz Dunstan was puzzled.

  “Youth must be served.” Vera Brazile did not alter her smile.

  “He’ll be served up like a trussed turkey iffen he don’t mind his ways,” Cyrus Dunstan said.

  “Vera knows what she’s talkin’ about,” his wife said. “You was a wild boy yourself.”

  “I was workin’ down in a mine at his age. I’d been workin’ my—uh—my tail off for eight years and more by that time.”

  “Now don’t start that ...”

  The evening wore on. Dinner was announced and Tom Vaughn came in and was introduced and unimpressed by the eastern lady, even while she flirted with him over the table laden with quail, beef, four kinds of vegetables, and bottles of red wine.

  Captain Stephen Fisher was established in an adobe house on the far edge of town, away from the riff raff. He had a Mexican boy come in to clean up—he was not a man to have women about if it could be prevented. He ate his meals in the hotel and had his washing done by the Chinese laundry. He rode a fine chestnut stallion to and fro in town, sitting tall in the saddle, a proper military figure.

  Right now he was having supper in the Dixon hotel. Across from him was Kid Dunstan, who was having trouble with his utensils because of his bandaged hand and was otherwise out of sorts, glum, monosyllabic.

  Fisher said, “One thing you must always remember, never overmatch yourself. You did it in Sunrise, then you failed to learn a lesson, and you did it again here. Cemetery Jones is not a man to trifle with.”

  “I know.” Then the kid blurted, “If I get him without his gun I’ll make plow-lines of his guts.”

  “You’ll never get the chance. And if you did it wouldn’t work. He’s too quick for you. I’ve told you over and over to work on your speed. You’re too lazy, Daniel. I’m warning you now. You’re going to work your tail off this week.”

  “I don’t have to. My pa owns this burg.”

  “Your father will not give you any more money until you show him you’ll work hard. Your mother will only have enough to run the homes.”

  “My ma will ... ”

  “Those are the new orders,” Fisher said crisply. “You will attend our meetings. Or you will work at the ranch. And I intend to take to the field for maneuvers at once. Get that in your head.”

  “Hell.”

  “It will be close to that.” Fisher paid his share of the bill to Dixon. Cassie refused to wait on Kid Dunstan, he knew. That he considered none of his business. He also knew that young Dunstan would be going to a whore tonight—his credit would be good in that part of town.

  He said, “You mark my words, young fellow, and toe the mark or you will be in deep trouble.”

  He left and rode back to his house. He put up his horse with great care. He entered the kitchen and saw that the boy had everything in order, exactly as he had given instructions. He went into the parlor and sat in a straight chair and picked up a history of Texas, by one H. Yoakum, published in 1855, one of two dull, lengthy volumes which he had found in El Paso. After a few minutes he put it down. He went into his bedroom and closed the blinds against the insistent, driving rain. There was, oddly, a pier glass mirror in a corner. Mechanically, he donned his cartridge belt. He stood in front of the glass and began practicing the fast draw with his .38 caliber Smith & Wesson.

  That was the way it had all begun. He had been a yearling at West Point. An upperclassman had accused him of cheating on a history examination. He had called the man out and because he was deft had shot him. He had been dismissed. His father had disowned him.

  He’d changed his name before he wandered to Kansas. He had killed a man over a card game—again the cheating. He did not understand it; he knew that others cheated and were never caught. It was his luck, he believed. Until now his luck had always, in the end, deserted him. Now, with his name again altered, he had another chance.

  The mayor was smart. He paid good money and he expected results. There was no reason to be anything but honest with him. The woman, now, was another matter.

  He was sweating from his exertions as he moved faster and faster. The picture of Sam Jones was somewhere on the edge of his mind. One bit of bad luck and he would have to face Jones; he was dead certain of that.

  The damn kids were easy. He could use his West Point training on them. Dunstan gave him the authority, and the tradition of the West gave him solidarity in their minds—be ready, be strong, be brave.

  The cloud in his head remained. He would, he swore, not let it dismay him. He had an opportunity to move into a position of power. That was all he had ever needed, power. The good life would follow. He must believe his luck would change—had changed. He made three swift draws and his arm ached and he quit. He had no real fear of facing Jones. It was all a matter of circumstances.

  He went into the kitchen where the boy always left a tin tub half-full of cold water. He stripped to sponge himself, a strict discipline. He scowled at the tooth marks on his legs where the damned, mangy dog had bitten him. The miserable
hound had interrupted him, begging for food, as he was en route to the stable, and he had kicked at it. Amazing how quick the ugly animal had been, he thought, and how it had vanished before he could recover and draw his revolver.

  He sought his Spartan bed. Tomorrow he would take the boys into the field, the wet, muddy field, and teach them what he had learned at the Point. He was building an army for Mayor Cyrus Dunstan—and himself. With an army, a disciplined band of men, he would have power. Meantime there was the other job to be done ...

  Five

  It was another evening in El Sol. Sam was trying to convey to Renee the rhythm of the black men in Dunstan.

  She understood, but when she tried to play the piano in that mood it was not quite right.

  “It’s like their—uh—souls are in it.” He was surprised at his attempt to explain it in those words. “I dunno. Like a hymn, but not like a hymn.”

  “I’ve read about them,” she said. “An African influence, the man wrote. I’d love to hear them.” She was wan and weary. They had talked and he had related to her the many sins of Cactus Joe and how every decent person wanted him dead, but he had known it did not help. She had taken the life of a human being. That he indeed knew all about.

  He said, “There’s a few people down there don’t like me too much. Maybe we’ll get to hear the black men one way or t’other, though. I sure want us to.” The dog lay between them at their special table in the rear of the saloon. It was a dull night to match the dull weather after the storm. The poker game was notable for its rare absence. Mayor Wagner and Frank Wilson of the general store were missing. Donkey Donovan came in and wiped his brow as he sat down with Renee and Sam.

  “That mountain man of your is some kinda punkin,” he said.

  “He is, he is,” Sam agreed.

  “First the barber shop. Said he was wet clean through and just needed some soap lather. Got his beard shaved, you wouldn’t know him.” Donkey paused, frowned and added, “There’s somethin’ familiar about him, though. Like I knowed him before.”

  “Sam says he’s looking for his granddaughter,” said Renee.

  “Yeah, huh? Well, he’s buyin’ at the store. I mean, he’s buyin’ city clothes. Said he’d meet us here. Said his granddaughter was white. Never did marry a squaw in church, just Injun ways. Said he heard his son got killed by Apaches.” Donkey spoke slower and slower. “Said he made a strike and was lookin’ to spend it on the gal.”

  Sam blinked and said, “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

  Before any more could be ventured the swinging doors flew open with a bang and Beaver McLaine stood in all his glory bellowing, “Whereat’s my friend Sam Jones?”

  He wore a purple and bright green shirt, striped gambler’s pants, a yellowish leather belt from which dangled a lanyard holding a long, sharp skinning knife, and his worn moccasins. On his head was a flat-brimmed Mexican-style hat.

  Sam rose and announced to all present, “This here is Beaver McLaine, last of the mountain men. He’ll do to cross any river with.”

  “Waugh. Drinks are on me. Belly up, folks.”

  Beaver tossed a gold piece on the bar and pigeon-toed his way to the table. The light fell full upon his face as he removed his hat and dropped it on the floor. His cheeks were pink from their first shave in many a year. His features were surprisingly delicate; when he smiled his teeth were white and even. His long nose was thin. His bright blue eyes were those of a far younger man.

  Sam said under his breath, “I’ll be damned.”

  Renee touched his hand and nodded. “Me too.”

  Beaver was orating, “They do have the fine duds nowadays. Always did like color, bright color. Couldn’t wear the boots, though. Been too long without crammin’ my feet into ’em. Nice feller at the store. Said he knew you good, Sam. Reckon everybody and his brother around here knows you good.”

  Sam said, “Got some friends here.” The blue eyes fixed on the marshal. “This here lawman’s been starin’ at me like I was wanted. Sonny, it’s been many a year since I broke a law.” He laughed deep in his chest and turned to Renee. “Little lady I heered about what happened to you. Don’t let it rankle. It’s bad for you, I know that all righty. But let it go away. Time cures. You did right. Let it pass.”

  She replied, “Thank you, Beaver.”

  “Kilt my first man when I was fifteen,” he said. “I was with Carson in Taos, just come from Virginny. Feller was drunk and come at me with a club. They was a big hiyu goin’ on, whiskey flowin’. I didn’t know nothin’ excepting that when you git in a tight spot you got to move.”

  Shaky came with a tray of drinks. He too took a long look, then said, “Howdy, Mr. McLaine.”

  “Don’t you mister me, friend. Beaver, that’s me. Ev’body knows me calls me Beaver.” He held up his glass, drained it, handed it back. “Waugh! Good liquor. I’ll take one more.”

  Shaky returned with a bottle of Monongahela rye and said, “My feet’s too sore to be runnin’. He’p yourselves.”

  Casey Robinson came from his office in the rear, leaned over to Renee and said, “It’s so slow tonight. Why don’t you take off, darlin’?”

  She said, “That is not why I’m here, thank you, my dear.”

  She went to the piano and played “Buffalo Gals,” and the conversation at the bar lightened. A cowboy danced with one of the girls. Beaver jumped to his feet, howling “Waugh!” and began to show Sunrise its first fandango. He could leap six feet off the ground and stomp and prance like a teenager.

  “His kind will never stop,” Casey said.

  “They broke the mold,” Sam said. “Where’s Peggy and Adam tonight?”

  “Supper with the Wagners and the new preacher.”

  “Church is fine. I never go into one for fear it’ll fall down and kill all those good people,” Sam said.

  “Churches is for the good,” agreed Casey. “Look. Here comes Peggy and Adam now.”

  Beaver had snatched the dance hall girl from the amused and willing cowboy and was whirling her around, feet off the ground, skirts flying. The cowboy began to clap and now the other customers were picking it up, laughing, enjoying the spectacle. Peggy and Adam Burr and the tall, red-haired preacher, Clayton Lomax, stood in the doorway.

  Renee finished the number with a flourish. Beaver hoisted the girl on high, holding her by her narrow waist, then set her down and bestowed a smacking kiss on her cheek.

  “Waugh!” He was not a whit out of breath. He reached into his pocket and took out a coin and flipped it to the girl. “My night to howl!”

  He wheeled around, conscious of newcomers behind him. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The pink cheeks paled. He was staring straight at Peggy McLaine Burr. He fell back, making vague gestures with his big hands.

  It was Renee who went from the piano to stand with them. She said, “We all saw it. Unmistakable. Peggy, dear, this is your grandfather.”

  The resemblance, allowing for the difference in gender, was unmistakable. The two stared at each other. Beaver took a half step, then stopped. Peggy’s face was hard; she moved close to Adam, seizing his arm in a tight grasp.

  She cried, “I don’t want no drunk old coot for a grandpa. I don’t want anything to do with anybody who’d leave my grandma and my pa and go away and not come back.”

  Beaver said, “You’re her, all right. Jest like your grandma. Never would listen to but one side of anything.”

  Renee said, “Please. Can’t we go to my room and talk about this?”

  “I don’t care who knows,” Peggy insisted. “That’s what my folks told me and nobody’s goin’ to make liars of my ma and pa.”

  Adam Burr tried. “Now, dear ...”

  She pulled away from him. “Not you, neither. Nobody. He can’t come and hang on me the rest of his life.”

  “Why, baby, I’m bringin’ you gold,” Beaver said, helplessly, taking out a pouch that jingled with heavy yellow coin. “I don’t want to go away. You gotta believe me. Your
grandma was mad at me. Said I was a no-good trapper, never had nothin’, never would have nothin’. And I ain’t never told nobody that till now, so help me.”

  “That’s not the way I heard it.” Peggy was adamant.

  Beaver appealed to Renee, “What can I do? I been lookin’ for her since I fin’lly made a strike. Lookin’ all over hill and dale.”

  “The hell with you!” Peggy was gone out the doors.

  Beaver started to follow but Adam interposed. “Sir, I am her husband. We should talk.”

  The old man’s shoulder slumped. He allowed Adam to lead him to the table where Sam sat. Renee joined them. The tall preacher hesitated, then followed, remaining in the background. They settled down in a saloon more quiet even than before. Everyone was trying to stifle his curiosity and mind his own business.

  Shaky brought glasses and a beer for Clayton Lomax and retreated to polish the bar within hearing distance.

  Adam said, “Mr. McLaine, there is no doubting that you and Peggy are look-alikes. The stories do not match but it is entirely possible that you are correct. I know your wife moved from Taos to work on a ranch. She died. Your son married and was slain by Indians, along with Peggy’s mother. Why didn’t you return to your family that first year?”

  Beaver opened his gaudy shirt. There was a deep scar across his chest. “Got into it with some Blackfoot. Good fighters. They done left me for dead in a gulch near the river. Some Creeks found me. They knowed me. Took a time to git on my feet. Had to trap to get enough to take back. Figured Marg’ret would be over her mad. She allus had that sudden temper. Never could find her, though. Went broke again and went back to the mountains. That’s the truth.”

  Adam, whose termagant mother had done him an unwitting favor by sending him west, was thoughtful. Renee cocked an eye at Sam, who drew a breath, and spoke.

  “If I had to swear to it, I’d take the man’s word. He ain’t got it in him to lie.”

  A small sigh went around the room. Like children, all wanted a happy ending.

  Adam mused, “Peggy needs someone, family. She has moods. If her bitterness ...” he trailed off.