Cemetery Jones 4

by William R. Cox

  Sam said, “Tie their hands behind them.”

  The black man said, “Geez, Lamont, these are nothin’ but kids.”

  Lamont was looking up at Sam in the tree. “Do as the man says.”

  The boys bound them, roped them together in a line. Lamont never took his eyes from Sam.

  “Into the wagon,” Sam ordered. While the youths were seeing to this order, he eased himself down to earth.

  “Tom, search ’em for knives, small guns, whatever. Don’t forget their socks.”

  “I’ve heard you were thorough,” Lamont said. “There’s a derringer in my shirt sleeve.”

  “You run a tight outfit,” Sam observed. “We’re in a bit of a hurry now and I’m worried about that wheel.”

  He climbed to the driver’s seat. Lamont and his men were lined up, roped together, hands and feet secured. Tom had cut a reata to suit the occasion. Sam picked up the reins, and the Conestoga moved slowly ahead. They came to where they had left the horses.

  Sam said, “Everybody out.” He heard shots in the distance and his blood ran faster. “Ride. The mare will follow you, won’t she?”

  “She will,” said Tom. “What about you alone here?”

  “I’ve got enough company for a fandango,” said Sam.

  Lamont’s cold voice said, “Who’s going to operate the Gatling gun for you, Jones?”

  “Anybody I want to,” Sam told him.

  Pawnee told him. “You make a wrong move, we go boom.”

  “I saw the dynamite keg,” said Sam. They also still had a supply of guns and ammunition.

  “He gonna blow us all to hell,” said the black man.

  Lamont said, “Shut up. The man’s got his rights.”

  “You peddled the guns,” Sam said.

  “I never ask what they’re for.” The steely voice never changed.

  “If there’s a next time, maybe you ought to,” said Sam.

  The reins were easy in his hands, the horses well trained. He drove gingerly, as fast as he imagined he dared, the wheel groaning as they came to the mouth of the canyon.

  He was immediately on the scene of battle. Riders circled, shooting, reloading. Indians crawled, kneeling to fire. He reined in. A stray bullet could finish him if he went closer. Even now there was danger.

  The boys were nearest to him. Their elders were on the far side of the action, riding to and fro. He saw Harvey and his band crouched in a heap, as far from the hottest action as they could manage and still be in the fight.

  He tied up the reins. He picked his rifle from where he had couched it and aimed.

  One of Harvey’s men went down. He thought it was the half-breed. They turned as one and leveled their guns.

  Sam put down the rifle. He saw the boys wave, he saw them give him space. He slid back behind the Gatling gun. It seemed simple enough to operate. There was a roll of cartridges attached. He touched the trigger.

  Lamont said, “It throws a little to the right.”

  Sam leaned over, sighted the weapon. He pressed the trigger.

  The gun shook; it was an uneasy piece of machinery. However, it made a nasty rattle. An Indian on a horse went down. Harvey yelled something and threw himself prone, hugging the earth. His men followed suit.

  Sam desisted, afraid he might hit a friend. He saw Indians whirling, staring. He shot another one of them from a horse on the theory that they were the most dangerous.

  Still they did not flee. The leaders waved, cried out to them. They did not charge the wagon. They redoubled their attempt to close in on the defenders of the valley. There were just too many of them, Sam saw. He picked up the reins and drove the wagon straight ahead. All the horsemen in his path rode away, circling, firing. A bullet whizzed by his ear.

  The black man moaned, “We’s gone.”

  The horse on which one of the Nolte boys rode—Sam could not distinguish which—stumbled. Three Indians were on him at once. Sam dared not fire the Gatling for fear of hitting the boy.

  He grabbed his rifle. He fired three quick shots. Two Indians fell. The Nolte boy shot from where he lay. The third Indian ran, limping.

  Harvey and his bunch remained flat, bad targets. Sam tried to get a bead on more than one rider at a time, was afraid of shooting over them and striking the defenders on the far side of the action. Dismayed, he tied down the reins and reloaded his Remington.

  Lamont said, still without an ounce of emotion, “Too many damn Indians, Jones.”

  The second Nolte boy was riding to the rescue of his brother. It seemed hopeless as Harvey and Kirby leveled their rifles.

  Sam said, “Your big gun don’t make it,” and jumped to earth with his rifle. Out of the comer of his eye he espied a strange sight. A fat figure on a mule was coming into action. E.C.Z. Judson raised his long-barreled revolver, aimed, fired.

  Another horse went down, tumbling the Indian rider. Judson rode to the fallen Naughright. It was Ned, the elder. With the aid of the brother he got the wounded Nolte on the mule and sent it striding toward the rear and the home ranch.

  Judson knelt. He held the long barrel of the gun across his elbow. He did not shoot wildly, he took his time. Sam found himself covering the red-haired fat man.

  Walking Bull was shouting orders. A group of the Indians afoot strung out in a line and knelt, turning a steady fire on Judson. Sam picked them off, one by one.

  They were gathering for another rush. Shots from the older men on the far side of the battle did not deter them as they went after Judson. They were not shooting, which seemed strange to Sam, Then he saw Harvey and Kirby and the big man, Umberson, joining the Indians. It appeared as though they wanted Judson alive. Dodging right and left, they came at him.

  Sam made an instant judgment. He jumped back on the wagon seat. He took out his clasp knife. He said, “Lamont, I’m a gambler.”

  He cut the rope binding the albino gunrunner. The man uttered no sound, rubbing his wrists.

  Sam said, “If you’re goin’ against us, get me for sure. Otherwise you’re dead.”

  He did not wait for a reply. He had judged the man. If he was wrong, the consequence was deadly. He grabbed his rifle and went to the aid of Judson-Buntline.

  It had been instinct as much as reason that had motivated him to set Lamont free. As to reason, he had heard enough while in the tree to know the gunrunner had not done business directly with the Sioux. The man’s demeanor had decided the rest of it, his fearlessness, his coolness.

  Now it was time to act in what seemed a hopeless cause. A remaining group of Indians was holding the plains people at bay. The others, with Harvey, Kirby, Silvera, Umberson, and Hagan, were advancing upon Judson.

  The stout redhead had emptied his long-barreled revolver. He was trying desperately to reload. Sam ran, zigging and zagging. He fired from the hip. Riders fell, horses stumbled and went down. It became a kaleidoscope of action, impossible to sort out.

  Then they all turned upon Sam, recognizing him as the source of immediate danger. Bullets flew around him as he ducked and squirmed, forcing him finally to throw himself down. He began then to lay down a low, steady stream of shots without steady aim.

  Silvera went down. Hagen fell backward as a shot hit him in the chest. Then Sam was between them and Judson, swinging his now empty rifle. Umberson loomed. The walnut butt struck him on the side of the head. He staggered into Rab Kirby.

  Harvey stepped aside from the hurly-burly. He drew his revolver. Sam, off balance, was an easy target.

  Judson, his gun reloaded, lifted the barrel with his left hand. Unflinching, he stood straight and pulled the trigger.

  Harvey spun completely around. Still clutching his revolver, he got off one shot.

  It caught Kirby in the neck. Blood spurted, splashing Umberson, who was trying to get to his feet. Judson’s second shot went into the big man’s chest.

  Suddenly the battle was over. There were simply no more moving targets. Sam stared at the Conestoga wagon.

  The rattle
of the Gatling gun was a snake call. Indians were flying in all directions, mainly to the north, away from Silver Plains. Walking Bull, astride one of the horses taken from Harvey, was leading the remaining Sioux to the horizon. The ranchers were riding to Sam and Judson and the bodies strewn about them.

  Kirby, writhing, rolled to where Sam stood. A folded piece of paper slipped from his pocket. Sam, a bit stunned from the sudden cessation of activity, picked it up. He unfolded it, saying to Judson, “That was a nice piece of work there.”

  Calmly, Judson replied, “You forget that I have been in battle heretofore. I am also aware that you saved my life whilst I was reloading.”

  Sam said, “I be damned. Looky here.” He handed the piece of paper to Judson.

  The red-haired man looked at it. He shook his head. “It is certainly a map to the gold that Harvey sought.”

  “From the Hole in the Hill to where it lays.” Sam shook his head.

  Now on the morning air came a sound of a bugle, the drumming of hoofs. The ranchers, Sam, Judson, all turned to the north. A pennon floated. Walking Bull, Callo, the surviving Indians rode in a cluster, disarmed. Behind them came the blue of troops.

  Sam said, “So they’re a little late. The Sixth can bury the dead and take care of the wounded.”

  Judson was turning the map over in his hands. He refolded it, handed it to Sam. Cries of the wounded sounded as an echo to the bugle. Judson said, for once subdued, “It’s yours. I don’t want it. Share it with the other good people.”

  “Better think that over. You’re out time and money,” said Sam. He was watching Big Jim riding in to them.

  “No,” said Judson. “I know what I feel. I can write this. I do not need the gold. I don’t even want to think about the gold.”

  Sam shook his head in wonder. “You’re a strange man, Buntline. You’re not the worst man I ever met. You’re not what I expected to find. Forget the cussin’ I laid on you?”

  They shook hands, no further words necessary. Big Jim was upon them, his face drawn.

  “Ned’s hurt. So’s Frank Nolte. Got to get the doctor from town. I don’t want to deal with the troops right now.”

  Judson’s red head came up, his shoulders squared. “I have had dealings with the military, gentlemen. Allow me.”

  A riderless horse wandered near enough for Sam to catch it up. He mounted. In the near distance there was a buckboard approaching. He blinked, looked hard. It was driven by Linda Naughright, come to pick up the wounded.

  He said, “You’ve got it,” and rode with Big Jim and the other ranchers. It was, he thought wonderingly, the first open battle in which he had ever been involved. He fervently hoped it would be the last. Fast hands, he had learned, were of little use in such confusion.

  He took one last look as the cavalry came closer. There was no sign of the Conestoga wagon. Lamont had bluffed his way through, headed for the Canadian border. Sam was of no mind to squeal. Good or bad, the gunrunner had saved the day for the ranchers. There would always be a place for the just and the unjust in a mixed-up world.

  Ten

  “This is the way it all started,” said Sam. He half expected a rider in black to appear, intent upon outdrawing him.

  The party was at Big Jim’s place. All the valley ranchers and half of Peapack were present, spread over the back forty on makeshift tables and benches. Mrs. Jenkins from town had been called in to help cook. Mary Jane Jenkins had been at the ranch earlier on invitation of Tom Naughright. The wounded were comfortably ensconced, recuperating quickly due to good health and careful nursing.

  E.C.Z. Judson said, “The dramatic circle, you see? All good stories work out that way.”

  Sam said, “If you dare write another word about me, it’ll be your last, friend.”

  There was no real anger in him. The bravery of the lame, redheaded writer had washed out all the bad feeling.

  Big Jim said, “In Jersey we used to say, what goes around comes around. You’ll never know how grateful we all are that you got here in time.”

  Sam shook his head. “You people would’ve managed somehow or t’other.”

  “I doubt we’d have learned about the gold,” Jim said. “I still don’t feel right about that.”

  Sam said, “I can’t work it. Judson here, he don’t want any part of it. Why let it lay there for somebody else to find?”

  “You got a part of it,” Jim said. “When we get it workin’ you’ll get a share. We won’t have it no other way.”

  “Can’t deny you that.”

  Big Jim went on, “Some of our boys are gettin’ a bit restless workin’ the range. This’ll be a blessin’. Something for them to think on, learn on.”

  Claims had already been filed. An assessor in Helena had confirmed the richness of the ore. Because he was curious and because the valley people had been so cordial, Sam had stayed an extra week. Now he was aware that he was homesick. It was a new sensation and it was extremely uncomfortable—he felt guilty for having a good time, he felt lonely to the bone. He longed for Renee and Dog and the people of Sunrise.

  Someone asked Judson about the show business, and Big Jim was called aside. Sam removed himself from the celebration, walking toward the stable. He weighed the pluses and negatives. Johnson, the barkeeper, called out, “Peapack’s got a Boot Hill. Makes us a real town.”

  Sam walked on. A new cemetery, he thought, and he had contributed to it. He turned for another look at the happy people. By the grace of God no one had been killed. No property had been lost. Tom Naughright had discovered love. Colonel Ramsey had told him that Harvey and his men had all long been wanted for murder and lesser crimes.

  Still, he felt depressed. Killing always followed him, would follow him.

  A small hand reached for his. He looked down at Linda Naughright. She was sober, thoughtful, a different girl than the saucy one he had met on the plain that day.

  She said, “Sam, can I talk to you?”

  “You always have.”

  “Yes. Always felt I could.” She made a face. “I never saw blood before, Sam. People dead and dyin’. It makes you feel different. Smaller. Like you’re not the only one.”

  “I was thinkin’ about that myself just now,” Sam told her. “It smells worse if you’re into it.”

  “Yes. Now I know why you hate that name they put on you.”

  “Trouble is, I keep earnin’ it,” he said. “I’m tryin’ to look on the bright side. Like Peapack will start to grow now, with the gold mine. It happened in Sunrise. You’ll have a marshal, and the law will help settle things down. When you grow, all kinds come in. It’s the story of the West.”

  She nodded, serious. “I’ll be a part of it. Maybe I should go to school. Will you talk to Pa?”

  “I’ll try. I agree with you.”

  She said, “Tom and Mary Jane are goin’ to be married. Things are goin’ to change all around. I got to get ready.”

  He patted her cheek. “You’ll be right there in the front rank. Now go and have a good time.”

  She held his hand tight. “I wish you were . . . Oh, you know.”

  He said, “Linda, I have a lady, a fine lady, back home. Otherwise . . . who knows?”

  “I know!” she said with her old brashness. “Believe me, I know.”

  She rose on tiptoe and he kissed her, patted her, and watched her run back to the party.

  So two of the Naughright kids had benefited by the uproar. Undoubtedly the others had matured in the desperation of battle.

  He walked on, went into the bunkhouse. He looked once more at the collection of guns. Prophecy of war? It was more than he could reason out to his satisfaction.

  He packed his duffel. He went to the stable and saddled his hired black horse from Helena.

  He mounted and rode in a wide circle, concealed by the buildings until he had a good start. Then he spurred the horse and began his journey to Sunrise. Enough had been said, enough had been done. It was time to go home.

  The stage
was early, thanks to good weather. Marshal Donovan was watching it when Sam swung down and collected his belongings. The boy called Dink was rolling his hoop; he let out a yip and said for all to hear, “He’s home! He’s home!”

  Sam produced a small coin; the boy rolled his hoop down the street, announcing to one and all, “Sam’s home! Sam’s home!”

  Donovan pressed his hand. “Been a long while. What you been up to all this while?”

  “It’s a long story. Glad to be home.”

  “You catch that Buntline?”

  “I caught him. Or he caught me. Or somethin’.” Sam said. “Like I say, it’s a long, long tale.”

  “Spot’s walkin’ around. Miss Renee’s at El Sol. The church is built and all. Otherwise it’s the same old story.”

  “No gunners lookin’ for me?”

  “Oh, yeah. A couple. We run ’em off. Fined ’em, jailed ’em, booted ’em.”

  “It’ll stop. Everything does.” He was weary from the trip. He picked up his luggage and trudged across to El Sol. Casey Robinson was there to greet him.

  “Got back all in one piece,” said the saloonkeeper. “You get to the writer feller?”

  “Yep.”

  “How was Montana?”

  “Real nice people,” said Sam. “And some not so nice. Tell you all about it later.”

  “Sure. Renee’s upstairs.”

  Sam left his baggage behind the bar and went up the stairs. There would be a lot of explaining to do about Judson. Some would never understand it. He called Renee’s name and her door opened and she was in his arms and they were kissing and then they were in her quarters and they were kissing again, with Dog trying, as always, to nudge in between them and failing this time.

  Out of breath, Renee finally said, “Peace! Or at least a truce. I want to hear it all.”

  He turned her loose and collapsed into one of her two comfortable chairs. “You got some of that brandy?”

  “You’ll need it.” The liquor came from the East and was served in snifter glasses imported from Paris. “Let me say, darling, I truly missed you this time. More than ever.”