Cemetery Jones 4

by William R. Cox

  There was a bank in Helena, but it was too far and there was not enough time—and also Helena was a tough town, not to be taken lightly. There were plenty of cattle to be taken on the other side of the mountain, but again there was not time to drive them into Canada for resale. He came to a stop. It was simply not going his way. For the life of him, he could not think of a way to get the guns from Lamont and turn them over to Walking Bull. And Lamont was due any day now.

  His method of operations had been to make a haul, scatter his men to certain destinations, call them together at the Hole when he had decided where next to strike. Perhaps he should now send Hemlock to the Indians, postpone the deal until they had made a strike. It would be taking too much of a chance of losing the opportunity to mine the gold and retire from the helter-skelter life he had led for so long. His head ached at the thought.

  Across his dolor a voice called, “Stranger in town.”

  With military precision each man went for his rifle. Harvey went to the head of the trail. There was a man on horseback reined in at the approach. Harvey called, “Who’s there? What do you want?”

  The reply came clear in stentorian tone. “I am Colonel E.C.Z. Judson. I seek Deke Harvey.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “Rab Kirby thought that you would want to see me.”

  “Kirby?”

  “The same.”

  “Hell, Kirby’s with some damn show thing.”

  “I, sir, am the man who employed him. I am also known as Ned Buntline.”

  “The writer feller?”

  “I see you know who I am.”

  The horseman spurred his horse to the steep trail. “We must speak together.”

  After a moment Harvey said, “Okay. Let him come up.” He had nothing to lose. His men would be watching to make sure this strange fellow was alone.

  Judson rode up the last steps of his journey. He asked, “Can you care for my horse?”

  So the man was not a pilgrim, thought Harvey. He knew that which came first in the way of horsemen. “We got water and feed. Set yourself down and we’ll augur.”

  Judson climbed nimbly down, stretched, and followed Harvey to the tree trunk, limping noticeably, stiff from his long ride. He said, “Rab Kirby said that you had a project in mind, a very profitable project. He suggested I might be of aid.”

  “What kinda project?”

  “Is it known to all of you?”

  “You say.”

  Judson paused for a long moment, looking around. Then he whispered, “Gold.”

  “Kirby told you that?”

  “He spoke of Sioux Indians.”

  “He did, did he? What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?” The stout little man wore his gun too high; its barrel was too long. Still, there was something about him that called for respect.

  “He said you might be in need of cash to gain the gold.”

  “He did, did he?” Harvey brightened.

  “And might you be carryin’ cash?”

  “That’s as it may be.” The others were staring hard at him; he ignored them. “Supposing we talk a deal.”

  “What kinda deal?” Harvey could smell money now.

  “You might fill me in on your plans.”

  “How much you got? I ain’t savin’ anything till I know what you got.”

  “Well, then, sir, I might’s well be going along,” said Judson. He seemed absolutely fearless, as though he did not realize he was among men who would kill him for far less than he was carrying.

  Taken aback, Harvey blurted, “No, wait a minute here. How much you wanta know?”

  “If we’re to be partners, I want to know all.”

  It occurred to Harvey that he had nothing to lose by agreeing. The man would never get away if anything went wrong. Already he could see the others licking their lips. He said, “Well, now. This chief, this Walkin’ Bull, he comes to me, he knows Hemlock there real good. He says—uh—he says for cash he’ll tell me where the gold is.” He paused. He had almost given away the deal in guns. He swallowed hard. “It ain’t far from here.”

  “And what does a Sioux chieftain want with money?”

  “That ain’t none of my business,” said Harvey. “Nor yours.” This strange one knew something about Indians. It was true that cash meant nothing to them.

  “Of course, the Sioux who acted in my play received a stipend. They spent it on gewgaws as soon as they received it. Children, they were as children.”

  “You see ’em comin’ atcha, they ain’t no kids,” said Harvey. “We aim to keep ’em peaceful, far as we’re concerned. Now, about that money.”

  “Probably they do not think of gold as money,” said Judson reflectively. “It would be impossible for them to reduce the ore to pure gold.”

  Harvey leaped into the breach. “Now, y’see? You figured that out for y’self.”

  Judson arose and limped to where they had dropped his saddlebags. He reached down and plucked a canvas sack lettered by the Helena bank. He shook it dramatically so that they might hear the clink of coins. He returned to his seat alongside Harvey. Now the others were moving in, staring. He bestowed a smile upon them and untied the bag, opened it, held out a handful of the money.

  “One thousand dollars,” he proclaimed. “One thousand for a half share in the E.C.Z. Gold Mining Company.”

  Harvey almost ejaculated, “Half share?” then gulped. He gently took the money and the sack from Judson and waved a hand at the others. “Done and done, pardner.”

  The lamb had been led to the slaughter, but the knife was not yet quite ready to perform the deed.

  Judson said grandly, “And there is more where that came from, my hearties. More if needed when we see the diggings.”

  The lamb was spared for that time.

  Samuel Hornblow Jones took a bath in the Alexandria Hotel of Helena, Montana. He put away his city clothes and got into range apparel. He went downstairs and into the bar. He was a day late due to a holdover in Chicago, and his temper was not the best. He ordered whiskey and looked at the other customers. One wore a badge. Sam addressed him.

  “Marshal, have a snort?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He stood next to Sam. “Name of Hinkle. Dave Hinkle.”

  “Sam Jones.”

  The marshal wore a handlebar mustache, which he now stroked, blue eyes fixed on Sam. “Cemetery Jones?”

  “You been readin’, too?”

  “The story’s been around. Bull dung.”

  “Thanks,” said Sam. “I’m lookin’ for the man who wrote it.”

  “Haven’t seen any Ned Buntline around here.”

  “Also goes by his real name, Judson. Stout little redhead, walks with a limp.”

  “Oh, yes, by golly. Important little jasper spouts a heap about how booze is gonna kill us all.”

  “That’s him,” said Sam. “He was headin’ for a hideout known as the Hole. You know where that is.” It was a statement, not a question. If the marshal was on his job, he would know the answer. “If Deke Harvey and his bunch are in quarters up there and your man’s carryin’ anything of value, chances are you won’t see him alive.”

  “Bad as that, is it?”

  “Well, they might not be there. They scatter around places they ain’t wanted, or where they got friends to hide ’em. When he’s got a job set up, they gather, make their plans, do the job and split the loot at the Hole, and are gone again. Sheriffs been after them for some time.”

  “No chance to take ’em at the Hole?”

  “It’s been tried.”

  “I see.” A man at the other end of the mahogany bar was talking to the bartender, gesturing, looking his way. Sam had not neglected to wear his Colt on his flank. He kept one eye on the man as he went on, “You don’t know if they’re up there?”

  “I believe they are.”

  “No way to get at ’em, you say. Got any other notions?”

  “Might go in the other side of the mountains. Nice
people up there. See Big Jim Naughright. He’d admire to do somethin’ to help.”

  Sam said, “Not to change the subject, but I believe there’s about to be trouble.”

  A very thin man was advancing. He held his hand near his holstered revolver. He said, “You’re Cemetery Jones.”

  “Sam Jones.”

  “I’m Tim Bart. You think you’re faster than me. Step outside, Jones.”

  Marshal Hinkle said quietly, “Start to oblige him.”

  “Thing to do,” said Sam. “Always got to be obligin’.”

  He started for the door. As the thin man passed, Hinkle kicked at his ankle. When Tim Bart staggered, the marshal hit him behind the ear with the muzzle of his gun. The would-be gunslinger went down on his face and lay still.

  Sam said, “Now that was right kind of you, Mr. Hinkle. Reckon we could have another drink while he sleeps it off?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Gets right monotonous since Buntline-Judson wrote that damn story,” Sam told him. “If I don’t do somethin’ about it, I might have to start a cemetery at that.”

  “No money in it,” said the lawman cheerfully. “Hope you catch the rascal and make him take it all back.”

  On the floor, Tim Bart moaned. Hinkle removed his gun from its holster and said, “Tim, you gotta stop drinkin’ whiskey. It don’t agree with you. Beer’s your limit from now on, you understand me?”

  “I coulda been famous,” protested Bart. “I coulda been in a book.”

  “That’s another thing,” the marshal chided. “You read too much. I’m plumb sorry, but you better look for another job.”

  “Aw, now, Marshal ...”

  Hinkle leaned down and removed a nickel-plated badge from Bart’s vest. “In other words, you been unpolite to a stranger once too often. You’re fired.”

  Bart got to his feet, looked reproachfully at Sam. “This here is all your fault. You oughta be ashamed of yourself.” He wandered out of the bar.

  “Maybe I should have let him shoot me,” said Sam. “I pure hate to see a man lose his job ‘cause of me.”

  “Don’t you worry none about Tim.” The marshal took a gulp of his whiskey. “Tell you the truth, he ain’t the reg’lar deputy. Not too long ago he saved my life. Got hit in the head with a bullet for it. Little squabble with the Indians. Old Walkin’ Bull again. Anyways, I sorta take care of Tim.”

  “I see,” said Sam. What he saw was a man loyal to a partially disabled friend. “You handled it right good.”

  “He needs,” said Hinkle, dismissing the subject, slightly embarrassed. “I do wish I could help you with Judson. Talkative feller. Mentions Bill Cody a lot. Like if he knows Cody, that makes him okay.”

  “He had him in his theater play.”

  “Well, Buntline seemed harmless enough.”

  “Seems ain’t it.” He told the marshal about Spot Freygang. He told him about they who had come after him. He told him about New York. The whiskey was having its way with them. They talked of the Sioux, with whom Sam was not familiar; they talked of the Apaches, with whom he was. Time seemed to be not of the essence. It was good to talk with a man who was of his ilk, who understood the nuances of western life.

  Finally Sam said, “Got to hire a horse.”

  “Slippery Slim can rent you one. Got to haggle with him, but his stock is the best in town. Lemme go with you.”

  They could walk straight as a string. If their equilibrium was fragile, it was not noticeable to the citizens who hailed the marshal cheerily as they made their way to the livery stable.

  Slippery Slim had a good-looking black stallion he called Stormy. He said, “How do I know you’re bringin’ him back?”

  “I’ll leave you a deposit. A hundred enough?”

  “You’re easier to deal with than the last hombre. Damn foreigner.”

  “Stranger, huh?”

  “Talked damn funny. Beat me down till I almost didn’t make two bits.”

  “Name of Judson?” asked Sam.

  “Colonel damn Judson, he said.”

  “Headin’ for the Hole for sure?” asked Hinkle.

  “Said so.”

  “There goes your man,” the marshal said to Sam.

  “Could be.” Sam addressed Slippery Slim. “Have my horse ready at daybreak, please. Could you arrange for some vittles to take along?”

  “Pleased to be a help. Hope you ketch that fat little feller for whatever.”

  Sam and the marshal returned to the steep main street. The marshal steered the way to a saloon in which a man in a derby hat played ragtime and girls were available to dance. It reminded Sam of El Sol, and he had two quick drinks to dispel homesickness, an affliction new to him. He had not ever, he reflected, put away so much liquor in months preceding this miserable trip. At this moment it did not seem to matter. Only the genial presence of Marshal Hinkle gave him some comfort.

  He said to the marshal, “If I had the sense the Lord gave a chicken, I’d give up this chase and go home.”

  “Man starts out, he generally has to finish.” Hinkle was holding his booze well, relaxed and smiling. “Lemme tell you about Naughright and them. There’s Fred Forrest and Dan Apgar and Byron Nolte. Naughright brought ’em all out here. Right now their herds is on the way to rail. Now each of them’s got grown kids, see? There’s Obie and Cal Apgar. There’s Jack and Junior Forrest. Frank and James Nolte. And there’s Tom and Ned Naughright, plus Linda. That Linda, she’s a caution. Got every randy kid within a hundred miles after her, and not a one ketchin’ up any.”

  “That’s a heap of young folk. Hate to see them fightin’ Indians. It ain’t healthy.”

  “You go up there and talk to Big Jim. He’s a right good man. Maybe he’ll have a notion about your Colonel Judson.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  A rouged but onetime pretty blond girl came to the table and twirled her short skirt. “Who’s your friend, Marshal?”

  Hinkle asked a question with his blue eyes. Sam was tempted for a moment, the whiskey working in him. Then he shook his head. “Time to eat, I reckon.”

  “Sorry, Trixie. Maybe later.”

  “He’s sure one handsome jasper.” She smiled. One tooth was broken.

  Sam said, “Thankee, ma’am,” and got to his feet. “Food?”

  “I do believe you’re right,” said Hinkle.

  There was a good restaurant in the hotel, for which Sam was duly grateful.

  Food could conquer alcohol, he knew. He managed to eat a huge steak and to say fond goodbyes to the agreeable Marshal Hinkle and hie himself to bed.

  Six

  Growing up in Montreal, Pierre Lamont had been abandoned, abused, and, worst, ridiculed. Possibly in revolt, he had become fascinated with firearms. Always he had been apart from his contemporaries. He was known to them as ‘the White Rabbit,’ or ‘the Crazy Mouse.’ He was an albino, complete to the pink eyes.

  In the underworld of the ancient city, however, Pierre Lamont became known as King Rat. His close companion was a harelip youth, who lost an eye in combat with the police and was known as the Mouth. Between them they developed a coterie of young men who robbed anywhere there was plunder. By the time they were in their twenties they had put together, at Lamont’s insistence, a cache of guns and ammunition. It was then they escaped a raid by the law and crossed into the United States with a wagonful of weaponry and began their career as arms merchants.

  Lamont had, because of his early persistent interest, become an expert gunsmith. The Mouth, real name Vincent Lamour, was his able assistant in the craft. Since there was a demand for arms always, everywhere, the team was successful. Moving ever westward, building, expanding, hiring and firing cohorts, they had now come to Montana and been caught in a downpour and had lost a wheel en route to the rendezvous with Deke Harvey on Silver Mountain.

  There were three men with the leaders, toughened veterans of the conscienceless trade. All knew wagons and horses. It was merely a matter of time before
they could repair the wheel and go on their way. Still, there must be word for Harvey. Lamont considered the situation as the rain lessened, leaving treacherous mud as an obstacle.

  Lamont was a man of no morals, no conscience. The money he made was spent on gambling and women, and well he knew that he was forever an object of curiosity, indeed aversion. Yet his business depended upon his reputation for keeping his word. That he did to the utmost of his ability. Now he must keep faith with Deke Harvey, whom he heartily despised.

  He said, “Vince, send Pawnee to the Hole.”

  The Indian known only as ‘Pawnee’ said from the shelter of the wagon, “I dunno the Hole.”

  “Straight ahead and they’ll see you,” Lamont said patiently. He needed the Indian right now. Later there would he reprisal for insubordination, however insignificant. “Go.”

  The coldness of his voice brought the Indian from the wagon and sent him on the way, rifle on his back. Lamont climbed to the wagon seat and waited for the rain to stop. The accident had happened. There was only one way to proceed; he refused to worry. He was a man unto himself; he made his own laws and obeyed them.

  It was midmorning when Sam Jones rode into the tiny town of Peapack. The sun hung above fleecy clouds and all seemed peaceful. But when he stopped at the livery stable to have his horse cared for, the proprietor was wearing a Colt and had a rifle leaning against the stable door.

  “Looking for a man named Naughright,” Sam told him.

  “Big Jim? You got more bad news?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Injuns. You seen any?”

  “Not hide nor hair.”

  The man said, “Name of Dempster. There’s been stories about Walkin’ Bull, the renegade bastid.”

  “That’s real bad.”

  “Well, it’s said the Sixth Cavalry took away his guns. I dunno. We got to be ready.”

  “I know you’re right. Can I get breakfast?”

  “Right up the street. Miz Jenkins. I didn’t get your name, mister.”