Cemetery Jones 4

by William R. Cox

  “Why, back in New York City with his wild West play, seems like. Place called Niblo’s Garden. He’s got a part in the show. Wrote it himself for Cody and Texas Jack and some Indians. Popular as all get out to those easterners.”

  Sam said, “Bill Cody never was nothin’ but a lazy buffalo hunter and military scout. So this writer feller’s name is Judson, is it?”

  “He was a hero in the War and everything. Never touches liquor, talks against it. You get to know him, he’s a somethin’,” she went on.

  “I aim to make his acquaintance,” Sam told her. “If I got to go to New York, that’s okay, too.”

  “You do that. Meantime, I’d advise you and young Freygang here to stay the night.” She leaned closer. She was really not so bad looking, and the long night had not taken toll on her. She smiled with white, even teeth. “I promise to take good care of you.”

  There had been a time—there had been many times - when Sam might have been tempted. His initial aversion to her had evaporated. She had a certain charm.

  Maybe it was the strong scent she wore. Maybe it was Renee back in Sunrise. Maybe it was instinct of a sort. He patted her bare shoulder and smiled at her and said, “That’s the best offer I had today. But no, thanks.”

  She persisted, “The girl who served the drinks can take care of young Freygang. As she did last time.”

  Spot blushed down to his collar. Sam said, “It’s a matter of time. I have to catch a train.”

  Missy Golden did not lose a smidgen of her smile. “You’re a good man, Sam Jones. Any time.”

  The doorman appeared from the shadows and opened the portal for them. There was a street lamp burning fifty yards away. Sam loosened the gun in his arm holster and led the way. The night air of the mile-high city was thin but brisk, so that he breathed deeply as the excitement of the poker contest died slowly in his veins.

  Spot said, “She was a nice girl but kinda common. She’s Polish. Talks with an accent, y’know?”

  “You’re a real dude when you’re away from Sunrise, ain’t you?”

  Spot said, “Well, Buntline was stayin’ with Missy.”

  “So I figured.” He saw the figure as a shadow at the far end, just beyond the light of the street lamp. He said sharply, “Stay away from me. When it starts, hit the ground and roll into the street.”

  The man was small and wore striped trousers and a dark shirt and a vest. His gun would be slanchwise, Sam knew, remembering Missy’s warning that he was left-handed. And he would be fast. Sam had heard stories of his quickness, of his sleight of hand with cards and other small objects. He could not discern the man’s face; he was clever enough to remain waiting in the shadow, waiting for Sam to show himself in the light of the lamp.

  A high voice, keening in the thin air, called, “Cemetery Jones. This here’s Egan.”

  Some were smart and some were dumb, thought Sam. “Talk, talk, talk,” he replied, taking out his gun. Just before he fired he heard footsteps. He called, “Down, Spot, down!”

  Spot yelled, “Behind you!”

  Another shot split the night. Sam was spinning. He knew Spot was down, heard him groan as he saw the figure behind him and got off two quick shots.

  The second man went down without a sound, splatting on the boardwalk. Now there were shouts and feet running and lanterns. Sam holstered his revolver and bent over the fallen Spot, who looked at him with bewildered eyes and muttered, “I’m shot, Sam. Hell’s damn bells.”

  A heavy voice said, “Hold it there. This here is the police.”

  “Trouble with you is that you’re never around when you’re needed,” Sam told the man with the lantern. He saw others bending over Swifty Egan, but he knew what they would find.

  He found himself triumphant. He was enjoying the fact that the tricky one would not again cause harm to the world. It was new to him, this sensation. Always before he had been depressed when it had been necessary to do away with another human being.

  The policeman was saying, “You there, you’re under arrest.”

  “Yeah,” said Sam. “That’s fine. But first get me a doctor, damn you. My friend is hurt.”

  “First gimme your gun, mister.” There were two of them. They wore flat black hats and prominently displayed badges, and each was pointing a weapon at Sam. Spot groaned once.

  Now Sam felt depleted. He sought for an answer, found none. These were big-city policemen, a species of which he knew nothing. They could kill him with impunity, he felt, report him as a murderer caught in the act. He hesitated.

  A dulcet voice said, “Now, Connolley. Jack. These are friends. One of the deaders is Shifty Egan. You know Shift. He needs to be dead.”

  A policeman said, “Missy? You know this here shooter?”

  “Like I said. A friend. Why don’t you get Doc Schooley out of bed? He’s right next door in Franny’s house.”

  “Well, Missy. If you say so.” One of them clomped toward a house in the portal of which there gleamed a modest red light.

  The other returned from inspecting the corpse beyond the light. “It’s Egan, all right. Got him between the eyes. That’s risky, ain’t it, mister?”

  “This is Cemetery Sam Jones,” said Missy Golden. “Now will you carry this boy into my place?”

  They hadn’t even checked on the other body. Sam was learning about big-city police. They took orders from the owner of a gambling establishment, they knew medical men who slept in whorehouses. Not that he hadn’t met town marshals who were no different.

  They handled Spot with care. The bullet had gone into the fleshy part of his right side, Sam had quickly ascertained; there seemed to be no bones broken. They carried him up the stairs and into a room where the cocktail waitress was amiably ready to take care of him. The doctor came, reasonably sober, and said that the bullet had gone through and that rest was necessary, plus care that no infection would set in.

  Missy said to Sam, “So. Now you’ll spend the night.”

  The police had vanished in order to pick up the dead men. Suddenly Sam felt completely worn out. He said, “Egan checked at the door. He knew Spot was with me. So he brought in a second gun. The kid’s hurt because of me. And thank you to Mr. Buntline-Judson or whoever.”

  “Now, wait. Jud’s just makin’ a living out of his dumb books. He didn’t mean you harm.”

  “Meanin’ or not meanin’ it don’t count,” said Sam. “That boy could’ve been killed.”

  She pursed her lips. “Well ... I can see how you feel about it, I really can. But you wouldn’t kill old Jud on that account, would you?”

  “I ain’t in the business of killin’ people who don’t come at me.” He was weary of it all. “If you can put Spot in a hospital, send me the bills in Sunrise, I’d appreciate.”

  “I’d be more’n glad. You’re not staying tonight?”

  He owed her explanation. “Lady, you’re okay. You warned me. You’re taking care of my friend. Send any bill to me, I’ll be glad. But tomorrow I got to wire Sunrise, send a bank draft down there, pick up clothing for Spot and me, and get on to New York. And I’m plumb wore down. Otherwise ...” he grinned at her. “Not that it ain’t mighty temptin’.”

  “Thanks.” She matched his grin. “You’re some dude, all right, Sam Jones. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

  “Any time.” He went to look at Spot, found him drowsy from sedatives.

  Spot said, “Wish I could go along with you, Sam. I’m so woozy . . . Never been shot up before ...” His eyelids drooped. “Be careful, now ...” He was again asleep.

  Sam was all the way back to the hotel before it occurred to him that he did not know the name of the backup to Shifty Egan, the second man he had killed that night. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter.

  Four

  James Gordon Bennett lifted his glass and said, “Here’s to the great and glorious West.” Philip Barnes Merrivale responded, “May it prosper as it grows.”

  The two men, garbed in full evening dress, stood at the ba
r of Niblo’s Garden in the City of New York. A poster on the wall proclaimed that Ned Buntline’s:

  REALISTIC DRAMA, SCOUTS OF THE PLAINS, introducing the GENUINE WESTERN HEROES BUFFALO BILL AND TEXAS JACK, with NED BUNTLINE, Ten Indian Warriors, the great danseuse MLLE. MORLACCHI and Full Dramatic Company

  was playing that night.

  People were wending their way into the theater. Outside, a beneficent moon shone on the famous avenue known as Broadway.

  Mr. Bennett had inherited the daily newspaper, the New York Herald. Mr. Merrivale had inherited a million dollars, including many western holdings, from his father.

  Mr. Bennett said, “You should visit out there, Phil. There are wonders to behold.”

  “Someday, perhaps. I have been influential in getting bills through Congress to advance the country, as you know.”

  “You must meet Buntline. You know about him, of course.”

  “I know he was an organizer of the Know Nothing party. That he went to jail for inciting a riot in the streets.”

  “Started that big fight—with others, of course. A minor incident in his unbelievable and somewhat fictional career. He was wounded in the war—and promoted himself subsequently from sergeant to general. He was hanged once and the rope broke. They say he’s been married four times. That he remarried once or twice without bothering to divorce.”

  Merrivale said, “Now there is a remarkable feat. He’s a consummate rascal, is he not?”

  “Someone called him ‘a strumpet-fondled, blowhard, cowhided mountebank.’ Yet he has wit and charm. He is lamed by wounds but can ride and shoot like a character from one of his trashy western fictional outpourings. And he made a mint of money.”

  “From his atrocious prose?”

  “Read by millions of morons.”

  Philip Merrivale said, “I read that one you gave me. With amazement. Is there such a person as Cemetery Jones?”

  “He digs them up. As he did Bill Cody.”

  “Unbelievable. Cemetery Jones. An interesting name, I admit. But no man could possibly be so adept with a revolver.”

  “On the contrary,” said Bennett, “I’ve seen some extraordinary feats in my travels westward. Samuel Colt’s handgun is still the law in many sections. Men of all description use it for good or bad. They learn to use it in self-defense if for no other reason.”

  Merrivale shook his head. “I still can’t believe in the wondrous Cemetery Jones. He’s too much, truly.”

  “So is Buffalo Bill Cody. You’ll see him tonight. A handsome devil, a hard drinker. Decent enough, very polite. Buntline invented him and he’s done the rest. I understand he’s feeling his oats as of now.” Bennett shrugged. “Normal, isn’t it? Human nature.”

  “All too human.” Merrivale surveyed the people entering the theater. They were mainly middle-class. There were families, teenagers galore. “It doesn’t hurt that youngsters are interested in the West. The future of the country lies there, as you have so often said.”

  “If only Inspector Williams could round up the Gas House Gang and send the young criminals out there, instead of bashing their heads,” said Bennett.

  “We’ve been printing editorials about the crime wave for months to no avail.”

  “Williams has done his part, but it isn’t enough by far. I say, there’s a westerner.”

  Bennett looked at the lean, tanned man well attired in western-style suiting, polished boots, and a curled-brim Stetson hat. “Probably a wealthy rancher on a holiday.”

  The bartender called, “Last chance, gentlemen. Curtain’s goin’ up in a few minutes now.”

  They ordered gin and bitters and watched the westerner accept a whiskey straight up.

  Two men confronted each other backstage at Niblo’s Garden. One was tall and extraordinarily handsome and wore a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. He was attired in buckskin pants and jacket over a brilliant red silk shirt. His long blond hair curled about his shoulders. On his feet were beaded, ankle-length moccasins. The other man was short and fat, and his red locks barely scratched his shoulders. He was a plump man with a round face and eyes as sharp as tacks. His clothing was a shadowy replica of that of the other, rumpled and ill fitting. He was speaking in an orator’s voice, declaiming, “I am indeed amazed and ashamed of you, Bill. Forgetting past favors, forgetting the fame I brought to you, me alone, as you are well aware, forgetting all that, how can you pass up twenty thousand dollars that this road trip will certainly earn for you?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Ned. I already got twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Through my artistry, my friend. I thought we were partners until death did us part!”

  “Ain’t near death for neither of us,” said Buffalo Bill Cody. “I got a family back home. I got a hankrin’ for the West. Not this phony-baloney West you writ. The real country where I was raised.”

  “Now, Bill, you know you are not telling the truth. Through me you have met the bon ton of America. You have wined and dined with people as no other of your like could ever do. You are famous because I made you famous. And now you are deserting me. What is your real reason? Be honest with me.”

  The tall man stroked his goatee. “Well, now, Ned, the truth is I’m sick and tired of playactin’. This here show has got me down. I ain’t no actor and never will be.”

  “You don’t need to be, Bill. You need nothing but my direction.”

  “No amount of directin’ is goin’ to make an actor outa me. I can ride and I can shoot a little, and that’s about it. I’m a-goin’ home.”

  Somehow, in spite of disagreement, there was no heat in the controversy. Buntline lifted a heavy shoulder, turning away.

  He said, “If that is your final decision, I cannot hope to prevail upon you, Bill.”

  “That’s it and done and done. You been fair and square with me. I ’preciate it.”

  “So it is near curtain time. Go and make your final entrance, and the Lord be with you.”

  Cody hesitated, then nodded a bit sheepishly. He waved a hand and left the room.

  A moment later there was a knock on the door. Ned Buntline said, “Enter.”

  The man who presented himself was disguised as an Indian, complete to a coarse black wig which hung down around a narrow, sharp-chinned face.

  “So, Mr. Buntline, was I lyin’ to you?” asked the man.

  “No, Kirby. Bill is leaving.”

  “And I got the right stuff on the gold in Montana, too. The Injuns don’t know I savvy their language, I tell you. They got the word. Injuns don’t care ‘bout gold, but they don’t want no whites up there.”

  “Perhaps you are correct.” Buntline took out a wad of bills and handed them over. “I am gambling that you are.”

  “It ain’t no gamble. You git to Deke Harvey. He’s the man. Deke Harvey. Cash talks with him. Carry cash. You’ll need help to git to the gold. I’ll be there.”

  “We’ve been over all that. It’s curtain time.”

  Kirby said, “Just do like I say. We’ll all be rich.”

  Edward C. Z. Judson, otherwise known as Ned Buntline, was alone. He looked in the mirror. What he saw did not reassure him. He was in trouble. He had to make another fast move, one of a hundred in his career. He went to a large carpetbag and began filling it with clothing. He muttered, “How many times have I told them the show must go on? My life is a show.”

  At the end of the first act of Scouts of the Plains, Samuel Hornblow Jones struggled his way past squirming youngsters and skirted knees and managed to get to the crowded bar with his ears ringing from the discharge of blank cartridges and his mind reeling at that which he had just witnessed. He found a place that was near the two elegant gentlemen he had noticed earlier.

  One said wonderingly, “Did you ever see and hear such balderdash in your life?”

  The other replied, “Did you ever hear more applause from an audience?”

  “Utter rotten nonsense.” The first man sipped his odd pink drink.

 
; “Of course, it has nothing at all to do with reality. But it’s what people want to believe. Death to all evil. Down with the Indians.”

  “That is truly disgraceful. Portraying all Indians as evil.”

  “Empire westward,” said the first man. “Your uncle in Congress is most vigorous in that project. Aren’t you in favor of all bills that are for expansion?”

  “With justice to the red men.”

  “Oh, come on, Philip. What the white man wants, the white man gets. If there is gold on Indian land, a treaty will be broken. It’s unjust, but there it is.”

  Merrivale changed the subject. “The language. Don’t tell me people talk like those actors.”

  “Not even close. Old Ned is inclined to verbosity at any cost, on any plane. He believes people want to hear western dialogue, so he invents it for them.”

  “The actors, Cody, Omahundro, they know better.”

  “They do what Ned tells them to do. A few times, when they improvise, you’ll hear the real West.”

  “Improvise?”

  “Neither of them can remember their lines even when sober. Most nights they are not quite themselves.”

  Philip Merrivale shook his head. “It’s an experience. I scarcely believed you when you told me about it.”

  “And you will admit that Bill Cody is handsome and with a certain showy presence?”

  “That is true. If he only did not utter such balderdash. You say Buntline wrote the play in two hours? Why did it take so long?”

  They had said it, but not quite enough, Sam thought, ordering another drink against the second act. He felt diminished, humiliated. The audience had screamed with delight when the ‘pards,’ as they kept calling each other, shot the desperadoes to death. There had been no discernible reason for the slayings. Just a lot of phony squawking and arm waving.

  The character listed as ‘Cal Durg’ was played by Buntline himself. He seemed to be a friend of Cody and Texas Jack, but he mouthed such language as Sam had never heard nor wanted to hear again. A westerner he was not, nor any other recognizable breed on earth.