Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  Sam said, “I want to ask you about last night.”

  “Me? What’n hell would I know about it?”

  “Anybody you know stealin’ dynamite lately? Any stranger in town askin’ questions about dynamite?”

  “You think I’m loco? You think I want the damn town blowed up?”

  “I doubt you’d raise a finger to save El Sol from bein’ blown to smithereens.”

  “You got that right. Far as strangers is concerned, ain’t every rider has the dinero to live it up fancy in El Sol. Ain’t every rider wants to. Stuck up, that’s Casey Robinson. And t’hell with all of youse.”

  One of the denizens of the bar snickered. Sam reached over and grabbed Rafferty’s shirt and pulled him forward. At the same time he insinuated the muzzle of his revolver under the big man’s nose.

  “I was askin’. Now I’m tellin’ you. Cactus Joe was for sure in here the other day, right?”

  “Ugh.” Rafferty managed to nod his head.

  “Okay. Next time an ugly like him rides into town I want to hear about it. You understand? For your own good.”

  “Ugh.”

  “You heard me.” He released Rafferty and surveyed the idlers. “That goes for you all. The marshal or me; we want to know.”

  No one spoke. The place was quiet as the tomb. Sam turned his back on them and walked out. He dared do this for a reason: If Rafferty or one of the others shot him from behind, the shooter would be dead within the hour. They knew this.

  There had been times when he had challenged a room full of guns but had backed out the door and moved swiftly enough to save his skin. Walking down the street toward Adam Burr’s house he thought about this and how one could sense the odds. Many braver than he had died by not knowing the way men acted under stress.

  He relished the sunshine as he went his way, and the greetings of fellow townsmen. He gave Dink a small coin as the kid’s hoop ran afoul. Unlike cowmen, Sam was a walker, in his way an interested observer of his fellow men. He heard his name called and saw Beaver coming across the street. They fell into step. The mountain man was again dressed in his worn buckskins.

  “Fancy clo’es don’t do good with me. Got ’em plenty scorched.” His eyebrows were depleted, his face still pink.

  “Good thing you didn’t have your face hair,” Sam said. “You’d have been a human torch.”

  “Luck. Plain luck. Like meetin’ Peggy. Powwowed a heap with her, might say. Made me feel lower’n a snake’s belly I didn’t ketch up with her sooner.”

  “Like you say, luck.”

  “Made me give her the stake to put in the bank. Banks! You reckon it’s safe?”

  “Safer than totin’ it.”

  “Country’s goin’ to hell in a hack. Towns, banks.”

  “Dynamite in a saloon. Somebody after my lady. It ain’t exactly tame, now, is it?”

  “Been scoutin’ around, askin’. Nobody knows nothin’.”

  “Thought we might look at the horses,” Sam said.

  “Keerect.” They walked a few steps, then Beaver said, “She’s cute as a button, ain’t she?”

  “And good as gold,” Sam told him.

  “That seems a fine, upstandin’ boy she married.”

  “He’s been blooded.”

  “She told me. A fighter with his fists, is he?”

  “All kinds. He’ll do to cross the river with.”

  “Waugh.”

  The grama grass grew all around the town on the high plain. Like the property Sam had bought, Adam Burr’s acreage was on the outskirts of Sunrise. It was not big enough to graze a large herd, but Adam kept a few cows and was importing Hereford bulls to improve the beef. Longhorn meat was edible and nourishing but required good teeth and patient chewing. They came to the lead-off road and walked gingerly through the drying mud to the corral behind the house.

  Blackie Schorr, who was Adam’s all around man, came to greet them, a lean figure with scarred features which belied his good nature, a sometime prizefighter who kept Adam fit by sparring with him each morning. He said, “Hey, there. Fine bunch o’ goats you brought. I put the mule in the barn; he was messin’ up the stock somethin’ awful.”

  Sam said, “Blackie, this is the owner. Beaver McLaine.”

  “Heard all about you, Beaver. This mornin’. Miz Burr sure is happy to see you.”

  “Let’s take a look at the animules,” Beaver said, peering at the four horses they’d brought back. “There’s outlaws and outlaws,” the mountain man opined. “These here are hoss outlaws. Been stole so many time they wouldn’t know their home stable if they walked into it.” Blackie let down the bars and they went into the corral. The horses were restless but calmed down at soothing words. Adam had a high bred harness horse and a couple of cayuses and riding animals. The outlaw mounts were indeed a sorry lot, sturdy enough but showing the effects of ill treatment. Sam went over the botched brands with care. Beaver was not as well grounded in such folderol, he said, satisfied with watching.

  “This one, the gray, was once the property of our councilman, Tillus,” Sam said. “Lord knows where the rest of ’em come from. Maybe Tillus knows when he lost one. Doubtful, though.”

  “I can tell you that,” Blackie said. “That TNT brand of his is too easy to alter. He lost three of his’n about a month ago. Riders passin’ through. Got such a head start he didn’t bother. Mad as a hatter, though.”

  “So that means Big Mouth and his sidekicks have been hereabouts for some time,” Sam said.

  “Most likely.”

  “Reckon I can find ’em,” Sam said. He took his saddle down from the corral bar. “Beaver, do me a favor. Tell Renee I’ve gone lookin’. She’ll know.”

  “Sure will. Needn’t say where you’re headed.”

  “You know.”

  “Get there after sunset.”

  “Best time.”

  Blackie said, “Reckon I ain’t heard nothin’.”

  “Adam will find you in. There’ll come a time, maybe, when we’ll need you,” Sam said.

  “I’ll be lookin’ after my animule,” Beaver said. “Hasta la vegas.”

  “Vaya con Dios,” Sam said. He worried about the news getting about the town, drifting to the wrong people. There had to be wrong people, or a wrong person, somewhere in the environs of Sunrise. He saddled his hired horse.

  The creek that ran down to feed Cyrus Dunstan’s ranch had overflown its edges during the storm, creating a marsh that suited the needs of Captain Steve Fisher. He was muddied and triumphant. He had a dozen of the troop ready to drop. They had been out since dawn without food. There were the Dunstan boy, Sven Olsen, several youngsters sixteen or seventeen, and two older men who were under his spell, believing they were readying for a holocaust of some sort.

  He said, “Attention!”

  They lined up according to height, as he had taught them. Only Kid Dunstan showed true reluctance. He said, “Hey, Cap, ain’t this enough? Damn, this is killin’ me.”

  “It’s teaching you to stay alive,” Fisher said.

  “I’ve learned enough about muck.” They had come to the most turbulent section of the creek. It ran through tall trees, rushing down to the town. It would later subside under the sun which was soaking it up in myriad rainbows.

  “You’ll learn to cross the river,” Fisher said. “This is your chance.”

  “I don’t need it,” mumbled Kid Dunstan. “I wanna go home.”

  “Whining won’t get you there.”

  For a moment it seemed the youth would depart. Fisher stared hard at him. “Your father will hear about this.”

  No one else spoke. He had control of them; he exulted. They were his, body and soul. He could mold them into a company that would follow him through hell and high water. For this moment he believed he was in a war and commanding a brave and willing combat troop. He demanded, “Who is the best swimmer?”

  Kid Dunstan said, “My stomach thinks my throat is cut.”

  Fisher uncoiled a braided
lariat he had been carrying wound around his body. “I want a volunteer to carry this across the stream.”

  “That ain’t no stream; it’s a damn river,” said the Kid.

  Fisher swept them with his hardest gaze. “Who can carry one end of this across the stream?”

  No one spoke. He knew he could not force this issue. It was a delicate moment. He said, “Well, then if you’re all cowards.”

  He tied one end of the rope securely to the trunk of a tree. He slowly divested himself of his outer garments, making a neat package of them and handing it to Sven Olsen. Truthfully, he had never been at home in the water. He had learned to swim at the Academy, of course, where it was required. He had not been in moving water since then, by choice. He did not know the depth of the stream he was about to enter. He did not reckon on its force.

  He tied the end of the rope about his waist. “When I get to the other side I will tow you over, one by one,” he told them. “Any questions?”

  Sven Olsen said, “Captain, there’s rocks in that crick. They’re comin’ down hard and fast.”

  “All the more test of your courage and ability.” He knew his shortcomings, had learned them through hard circumstances. He religiously faced them in moments like this. It was part of his overall grand plan. He did not feel ridiculous, standing there in his long johns, stockinged feet in the mud. He was following his star, proving that he could command by example.

  He walked upstream, attempting to judge the strength of the roiling water. He took a deep breath and walked into it. He was fifty yards beyond the men who watched in fascination. A stone struck his leg with sudden force and he knew he was in trouble. It was the moment of decision.

  If he quit, he would look foolish. If he went ahead, he might be injured, even killed.

  He did not hesitate. He plunged into the swift running water. It was icy cold coming down from the high mountains. He had not had time to scan the terrain since arriving in this country. He blamed himself as he gasped and struck out in the breast stroke he had been taught. The rope handicapped him more than he had anticipated. Consigning himself to his dubious fate, he struggled on.

  He lost ground from the start. He was swept, fighting, toward the waiting, staring men under his command. He kicked and stroked with might and main to no avail, swallowing water. He tried to keep his head above water and failed.

  A round stone detached from the heights above came rushing as if thrown by a giant. He saw it coming. He tried to evade it, diving under in the middle of the current. The rock struck him in the head and he knew no more for a time.

  The boys and men pulled on the rope.

  One of them said, “The bugger’s got plenty of sand.”

  “In his mouth,” Kid Dunstan said, refusing to haul on the lariat. “Let him go, good riddance.”

  The others persisted, Sven with one hand, unwilling to drop the clothing in the mire. They hauled him to the shore and dragged him through the mud to safety. Water gushed from his mouth. The lifted him, face down, and he choked and gurgled and stared at them, regaining consciousness. There was a red ring about his body where the rope had cut into his flesh, and blood was on his face.

  They managed to remove the waterlogged underwear and socks. They dried him as best they could. He coughed and choked and regained his speech.

  “My clothes,” he whispered, conscious that no man could command when naked.

  Sven helped him on with his garments minus the underwear. He drew an agonized breath and said, “So I failed. We learn through our mistakes. Nature was stronger than me.” He paused. “Does anyone else want to try?”

  No one spoke. He had not, he knew, lost their respect. He took a step, staggered and would have fallen had it not been for the hand of Sven Olsen. He shrugged himself erect and said, “We will return to our base.”

  Another man came to support him. They walked slowly toward town. He was sore all over. Every step was an agony, but he never faltered. Experience had taught him that it was possible to maintain respect through failure. He bit down hard and held onto his dream.

  They sat in the library of Philip Barnes Merrivale, a high-ceilinged room in a Fifth Avenue brownstone mansion. The walls were lined with books that had been read. Deep leather chairs accommodated the two men. There was a decanter of fine wine between them. The senator, Barnes Emerson Merrivale, caressed his short, white beard and said, “Philip, I tell you I agree.”

  “I must impress it upon you, Uncle. The conservation bill must pass. You are really not interested.”

  “The West is still raw. And—it is not important to my constituency. However, I repeat that the bill will go through. And you will make another fortune.” He smiled and poured wine into imported Venetian glass. “Keep cool. ‘It will all be one a hundred years hence.’”

  “Ralph Waldo Emerson.”

  The senator from New England sighed. “I miss him. I miss Henry Longfellow.”

  “They hated each other. They made their mark and died almost together. As Emerson said, ‘Every hero is a bore at last.’”

  “You’ve been brooding again. You have everything a man needs including half the women in the city. They throw themselves at you. You are handsome and healthy and rich. And young. If I were your age ... ah, if I were your age!”

  “I remember when you were my age. And Uncle Ralph and Uncle Henry ... and father,” Philip said.

  “Yes. And you were a rascal always except later, when you were with her.”

  “Playing duets.” Philip shook his head. “A fool in love. And still in love.”

  “You lost her. Must you spend your life trying to find her? How do you know she would be the same? Philip, you are wasting your time grieving for that girl. She’s a woman now. Can’t you find someone else? What about the other one?”

  “She wanted marriage. I could not marry her.”

  “She was a strong woman. Her family was wealthy. She was very handsome,” the senator said.

  “Too strong,” Philip said. “No. Not while my lady is alive.”

  “The Pinkertons cannot find her. She may be dead.”

  “No. I would know if she were dead.”

  The senator shook his head. “A millionaire sentimentalist.”

  “You see, I have always loved her. Since we were children.”

  “I know.” His uncle spoke kindly. “I respect your love. Your father was a one-woman man. Still, you should not live alone.”

  “‘Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.’ Mr. Emerson again.”

  “‘The world uncertain comes and goes, the lover rooted stays.’ We can sit here and quote our betters all night. Have your man call my carriage. I’m leaving for Washington tomorrow. Again, your bill shall pass. I promise you.”

  Philip saw his uncle to the door. A heavy fog had rolled in so that the street light shone blue on damp paving. It was a night for snug love, he thought, retiring to the music room where the butler brought the wine. He sat down at the grand piano, knowing he was hurting himself, unable to refrain.

  He played Beethoven. He remembered her sitting beside him, their hands touching. He could see the long, slender fingers caressing the keys. He could never play as she did, but he had the affinity for music.

  The other woman, now, she was a dancer, graceful, sexual. She had filled a time when he was striking out, hurt, damaged. Then she had made the mistake of trying to take over, to discharge his faithful servants, to run his life. He had discovered a hard inner core to her. He had told her that he would never marry while his first love was alive. It had, finally, been enough to drive her away.

  He was good at that, he thought bitterly, driving them away. He had been headstrong, selfish, wanting it all without giving enough. He had increased his inheritance by using that characteristic in business. He had learned when it was too late that the only gain was through giving. He should have listened to Uncle Ralph Waldo Emerson. He should have listened to Uncle Barnes, who had taken his father’s place after the War. H
e could not remember his mother, who had died when he was an infant, but he had been loved and cared for by some of the greatest men in the country, who had coddled him and tried to influence him.

  The failure had been his own. He faced it, pounding the keys of the piano in a fierce crescendo of his own improvisation.

  Renee was at the piano. Casey Robinson sat where he could watch the door, a Colt .45 in a holster worn high on his hip. Marshal Donovan made his stop and spoke to him.

  “I got Sandy Stone sworn in. He’ll be patrollin’ outside.”

  Casey said, “Adam’ll be in later.”

  “The mayor and the council will be in for the poker game. They know about it.”

  “Shaky’s got his shotgun oiled behind the bar. You take care of outside; we’ll be ready in here.”

  The dog lay beside Renee. It was dark over Sunrise. The regulars were all on hand except for the councilors, who were having a meeting regarding the new church. Renee played on, going from popular tunes to the classics, not knowing which, her mind culling her past with diligence, unable to find a clue that would in any way produce anyone who would want to kill her. Certainly not her first love, that flamboyant boy and man of many parts. She had left him long ago. She went through the dark passages and bright ones in her memory. No one, she thought desperately, was a killer.

  Someone—it may have been he, the first one—had put the Pinkertons on her but they had proven easy to avoid. A change of name, swift moves on the railroads had taken care of them. They were mainly slow-witted bunglers, she had learned.

  The council filed in and Mayor Wagner came to her. She stopped playing as the kindly man said, “Miss Renee, we are goin’ to take care of you. Believe me.”

  “I believe you.”

  “What with that peculiar hound and Sam and all, we got you covered.”

  “You are the best people in the world.” She spoke with heartfelt emphasis. “I am ashamed that I should put you to such trouble.”