Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  Captain Fisher said, “These young men are now in my care. You can do what you like.”

  “They might be in your care, but they go before the mayor when we get in town,” Sam told him. “You just mosey along. I’ll be right with you.”

  The Dunstan boy yelped, “You see? You see how he is? He’s got no right.”

  “Comes a time when might makes right,” Sam said. “You got the numbers there. Anybody want to start a ruckus? It ain’t necessary. Dyin’ on a nice day like this is a sad proposition.”

  He spoke with a smile but there was in his voice a warning. It got home to the three men in blue who followed Captain Fisher. He recognized it at once, saw the Captain hesitate, saw that the man was not afraid, that he had the instinct and the brains to accept a standoff.

  “No need to talk of dying,” Fisher said stiffly. “I was asked to look for the boys. Shall we now proceed to town?”

  “Like you say.” A military man, no question of it, Sam thought. The uniforms of the followers were thus explained. Something new in Dunstan, something to ponder.

  For the remainder of the way young Dunstan rode with Captain Fisher and talked, receiving little response. The twins remained silent, as did the three blue clad riders. Sam followed, alert but silent.

  Dunstan had added a new small hotel, he found, but was still a one-street town, adobe shacks huddled together around two saloons, a general store, a hay and feed shop next to a barber’s emporium. The Dunstan house at the far end of the avenue was of wood and plaster, sticking out like a sore thumb. City Hall was a large, rambling building which accommodated a jail in the rear and a large empty room that would be used for meetings. Dunstan was raw and it could be a dangerous place for a stranger, especially one with the message that Sam had to carry.

  Cyrus Dunstan, it turned out, was at home. Night was falling when they arrived at the door. A large dusky woman answered the door.

  Captain Fisher said, “Itha. Permission to speak to the mayor.”

  “Lawsy, is that you, Danny Dunstan?” She peered at the assorted crew and stepped inside. “Your pa is gonna give you fits, stayin’ out all night without givin’ notice. You Olsen boys, it’s a good thing your folks is away. I swan, I dunno what young uns is comin’ to these days.”

  They entered through a small hall and turned into a huge room filled with the most garish mail order furniture Sam had ever seen. Once indoors young Dunstan seemed to grow a foot. He commanded, “Mind your own business, Itha, and call my mom.”

  At the far end of the room a tiny woman stood, stared, then came forward calling, “Cy! There’s folks here to see you.”

  “They put me in jail, Mom,” her son wailed. “This here feller shot my new gun all to pieces and ruined my spurs. I was jus’ funnin’ and they jumped me and hit me.”

  A roar came from another room, “What’s this? What the hell is goin’ on? You there Cap?”

  Fisher responded, “Yes, sir. There’s a man from Sunrise has another tale to tell, I fear.”

  The man who came into the room was big. He was tall and wide and thick through the middle. His face was craggy, his mouth wide beneath a bushy mustache. He was dressed in ill-fitting city garments but wore broken-in cowboy boots. He rumbled, “I betcha there’s another story to tell.”

  “Now, Cy,” said his wife. “Don’t you be listenin’ to slander on your own son.”

  “My son.” The big man’s head wagged. He spotted Sam. He said, “Ho, there. You in on this?”

  “I brought ’em back here.”

  “Cemetery Jones. You do the shootin’ he’s yammerin’ about?”

  “Yep.”

  Cy Dunstan eyed his son. “You sorry pup, you’re lucky to be alive and standing there. I seen this man work in Dodge City when you were a squallin’ brat. I seen Masterson and I seen Earp and they can’t hold a candle to him. You ... ”

  Mrs. Dunstan threw her arms around the boy and cried, “No! It couldn’t happen to my darlin’. Don’t you talk like that.”

  Sam was watching Captain Fisher out of the corner of his eye. He saw the prominent jaw muscle bulge, he saw his hand dart to the butt of his gun. He knew the symptoms, they were all certain they were the fastest.

  Dunstan said without raising his already loud voice, “Never mind that now, woman. You twins, you go home and don’t you leave the house ’til I say so.” He waited until the boys had hastily departed. “They tag along. Any trouble, I know who caused it. Cap, what you got to say?”

  Stiffly, Fisher said, “It is a matter of who to believe.”

  Now Dunstan grinned, showing strong, yellow teeth. “Jones, you got to ’scuse the captain. He’s kinda new. Keeps order, teaches the young uns somewhat. We’re gonna make this town bigger and better’n Sunrise. I’m promisin’ you.”

  “Sounds good.” The man loved to hear himself talk, Sam thought.

  Dunstan turned to Fisher. “As for you, when it comes to military doin’s and so forth I don’t augur. But when it comes down to that boy against Cemetery Jones—I know ’em both. Leastways I know about Jones from hearsay. He don’t lie.”

  His wife shrilled, “Cy, don’t you make my darlin’ a fibber.”

  “The good Lord done that.” Still he did not speak unkindly. He was merely stating the truth as he saw it, Sam recognized. He now asked, “What’s the damages?”

  “All paid.”

  Dunstan shook his massive head. “Givin’ him cash to carry again. I told you and told you.”

  Mrs. Dunstan said, “We’ve got the money. Why shouldn’t my boy have fun?”

  “Shootin’ off his mouth when he’s totin’ iron is mighty dangerous fun,” Dunstan said, as if explaining to a child. “Here I am tryin’ to make this town a decent place and he goes to Sunrise and causes us to look like trash. Fisher, you do somethin’ about this, you hear? I want his ass worked. I want him to learn how to act in decent comp’ny.”

  “Yes, sir.” The tone was colorless. The man felt he was losing face, Sam knew. He could be a very dangerous man indeed, working with the youths of Dunstan. It was plain that he was not entirely in agreement with Dunstan, probably held him in contempt.

  “We’re goin’ to do things, I tell you,” Dunstan insisted. “We got plans.”

  As if on cue, a female figure appeared at the head of the stairway to the second story of the big house. She was diminutive, blonde, clad in a long gown that had never been purchased in Dunstan—nor in Sunrise. Sam recognized it as the sort that Renee wore, except that this one was low cut to reveal the contours of breasts larger than seemed proper on such a small woman. When she slowly descended the stairs she seemed to float, her fingertips scarcely touching the banister. She came across the floor as if on wheels, smiling, head cocked to one side. She had a small nose and a rather large but shapely mouth and pearly teeth. She was the epitome of grace and extreme style.

  Sam could feel the temperature of the room rise. The brat Kid was beaming. Captain Fisher stood more erect than before, if that were possible. Mrs. Dunstan uttered a little squeal of pleasure. Only Cy Dunstan seemed unaffected except in his delivery, a small roar.

  “Just what I was talkin’ on. Miss Vera Brazile, meet Cem ...”

  Sam, fed up, interrupted, “If you don’t mind, Mayor, my name is Sam Jones.”

  For a moment it seemed that Dunstan would be annoyed. Then he beamed and said, “Sartain, sartain, Mr. Sam Jones from Sunrise. A neighbor you might say. He’s invited to the swaree, whenever it comes off.”

  The woman did her glide over to offer Sam a limp hand. He imagined she thought he would kiss it. She had that effect. He touched it and said, “Pleased, I’m sure.”

  “Cotillion,” she said. Her voice was melodious. “With the help of the mayor and his gracious lady I have brought the new dances—and new music—to this great western country, I do hope and pray.”

  “From New y’Orleans,” Dunstan said triumphantly. “None of your knee high stompin’ and swingin’ around. Real class dan
cin’. The waltz. You ever seen a waltz, Jones?”

  “I’ve had the pleasure.” He was being too damned polite, he thought, especially since he was not being sincere. He was looking for an assassin, not social pleasantries.

  “I find western people naturally graceful,” said Vera Brazile. “In no time at all they catch onto the rhythm.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sam had seen a heap of dancing from Indian tribal to the hug-em-up of bordellos. To imagine a cotillion in Dunstan taxed his belief.

  “Perhaps you would attend the class tonight, Mr. Jones?”

  Dunstan bellowed, “Right! Give you chance to see what’s what in this here burg. Just about suppertime. Set with us?”

  Sam said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a couple errands.”

  “Later, then. You can’t go home tonight. It’s at the City Hall, you know, the big room.”

  “Maybe,” Sam said. He bowed to the ladies. “I’ll be on my way now.”

  Dunstan followed him to where his horse stood at the hitching rail. He said, “I’m tellin’ you true, Sam Jones, we’re gonna catch up with Sunrise and beat it.”

  “Might be.” Sam paused. “Wanted to tell you, though. A bushwhacker took a shot at me yesterday. Headed this way. Maybe you got some notions?”

  “Bushwhacked you? Hell no. I’m tryin’ to keep the peace. Got enough trouble with that brat of mine.”

  “If you hear anything I’d appreciate it,” Sam said.

  “If I hear anything I’ll have Fisher take care of him,” promised Dunstan. “Damn any bushwhacker ever lived.”

  “Thanks. Later, maybe.” Sam mounted and rode into the early night. At the hotel, which was clean, if primitive, he asked the owner, “You know where the Olsens live?”

  “Right around the corner. Olsen’s the butcher. Outa town buyin’ beef right now. Him and his missus.”

  “Thanks. Can I get a meal here?”

  “Well ... my wife could run up something.” He was a clean-shaven man named Dixon. “Put your horse in the stable? I got no help, have to do it all yourself.”

  “Thanks, I’ll take the vittles and fodder for the horse.” He went out to the street. People were moving about; there was a lot of noise from the saloons. A woman lurched into him and said in a whiskey voice, “Buy me a drink, stranger? I’ll show you a good time.”

  He said, “No, thanks,” and reached for the bridle of the black horse.

  A man growled, “Insultin’ a lady, you bastid?” and came at him with a short, heavy club. Always chary of hurting his gun hand, Sam hooked with his left elbow and nailed the attacker on the chin. As the man went down he kicked him in the crotch.

  The woman clawed, screeching. He slapped her across the back of her neck and knocked her onto the prone pimp.

  He said, “Now don’t you two try to get up for ten minutes. And don’t see me later.”

  He led the horse to the barn behind the hotel and cared for him. The barn was clean and neat by lantern light. It was a town of contrasts, he thought, like every other frontier burg he had known over the years.

  He ate a quick, good meal and paid for it, adding his compliments. He walked around the corner as he’d been directed and found an adobe house of ample dimensions. There was a light in the kitchen, and he tapped on the window. The Olsen twins appeared as if on strings and stared at him. After a moment they beckoned him to the rear door. They were owl-eyed but not frightened when he entered.

  He said, “Wanted to palaver some.”

  “Okay, Mr. Jones.” Now they were a bit off key, as though speaking to a person in their own home made a difference.

  He asked, “Now which of you is which? By name, that is.”

  They exchanged quick glances. Then the one with the narrower head said, “Nobody ever asks that. I’m Sven. He’s Oley.”

  It was a huge kitchen, immaculate. Sam helped himself to a chair and asked, “You boys dress alike to fool people?”

  Sven said, “It’s our ma.”

  Oley said, “She always did it to us.” Now it could be heard that his voice was in a slightly different key than that of Sven.

  Sven said, “We just always have.”

  “You ride with young Dunstan a lot?”

  “No,” they chorused. “Mainly when Cap Fisher drills us.”

  “I see.” He had thought they were not of the same stamp as the braggart Kid. “You like this Fisher’s outfit?”

  Sven hesitated and then said, “Everybody’s in it. Like military.”

  “A young army.”

  “Uh—some of the older fellers are gettin’ into it, too, when they have time.”

  “Anybody from out of town?”

  Sven said, “A couple. Kinda rough. Like army fellers.”

  “Who you goin’ to fight?”

  “Oh, Injuns. Robbers. Like that. Be prepared, Cap always says.”

  “Real good. If there were any Indians on the warpath or any robber gangs around. Your pa lets you off from work to train thisaway?”

  “That’s right. We work in the shop. It’s the only one in town.”

  Sam asked, “These new fellers, where do they work?”

  “Oh, Mr. Dunstan gave them jobs on the ranch when Cap asked him to.”

  “Cap Fisher—he’s the town marshal?”

  “We ain’t got one. Mayor Dunstan said we don’t need one since we’re all sorta watchin’ over things.” Sven seemed a bit uncertain. “All this dancin’ and stuff, the town’s changin’.”

  “You don’t cotton to the dancin’?”

  “We like it. Papa does. He’s Swedish. Ma, she’s Scottish. She wishes for a church.”

  Sam said, “Tell your ma we’re gettin’ a church in Sunrise. We got dancin’, too, in El Sol.”

  They were puzzled. “Pa’s got good business here.”

  “Him and Mr. Dunstan are good friends,” Sven said.

  “I see. You boys satisfied the way you were treated in Sunrise?”

  They chorused again, “It was fair. Kid, he caused it all. We got treated okay.”

  “Thanks, boys.” Sam got up to leave. At the door he paused and asked, “You seen anything of a clumsy old hound dog around these parts?”

  They giggled. Sven said, “Sure did. Few days ago he bit Kid Dunstan. Kid fired at him and missed. Kid, he ain’t much of a shot, truly.”

  “Glad I asked.”

  Sven said soberly, “Mr. Jones.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Cap Fisher, they say he’s the fastest gun in the West. We seen him draw. He’s tremendous good.”

  “Why are you tellin’ me?”

  “Uh—you were mighty quick last night. And you treated us fair and square.”

  “Reckon you’re warnin’ me.”

  They hesitated, then said together, “We don’t like Cap Fisher much.”

  “You know, I agree,” said Sam. “Okay, is there a way around the back, past the hotel, then to the street?”

  “We’ll show you.”

  “No. Just tell me.”

  They went to the back with him and pointed the way, which was dark and deserted. He said, “See you at the dance,” and moved quietly and cautiously. He found the alley they had indicated and prowled to the main street.

  As he had expected, they were waiting. They were covering the hotel entrance, the pimp, crouched and still in pain, and several others, lurking in doorways and the mouth of the alley next to the street where the Olsens dwelt. He pondered a moment.

  He should not kill anyone in Dunstan. Fisher would be on him in a moment. On the other hand this crew would bludgeon him to death and vanish into the woodwork, and there would be little time spent looking for them. He could run for it and risk a gauntlet, but that was not his style. He drew a deep breath and walked out onto the street, lit only by lights from the buildings and the hotel. He stayed close to the buildings.

  They came like a pack of rats, swinging clubs. He saw the glint of a blade. He waited, singled out the knife man. He fired low.
The man screamed and went down. They made the error of coming abreast. He fanned the Colt, a procedure which did not allow for aim. He shot at their legs, moving as he fired. Sidling, he emptied the gun and, from long practice, reloaded. One came close; he kicked out. Then, suddenly, those who were not howling in pain were gone, like rats to their holes.

  And there was Captain Fisher and several men. They were not wearing their uniform blue; they were dressed for the dance at City Hall. He waited at the entrance to the hotel.

  Fisher said, “What is this, sir?”

  “You tell me,” Sam said, holstering his gun.

  “Why did you shoot these men?”

  “To keep them from killin’ me,” Sam said. “You got a real bad bunch around here, Captain. Whores, pimps, a sorry lot.”

  “No reason to shoot them down like dogs.”

  “Dogs? Way I see it, dogs are more decent.”

  “I’ll have to put you under arrest, Jones.”

  Sam moved one step, facing Fisher. “I don’t reckon so.”

  “You defy the law?”

  “I claim self defense. Also I wonder where you were when all this was goin’ on? This gatherin’ of trash.”

  Now from the side street came the Olsen twins. They said in their duet style, “We seen it all, Cap. They come at him with clubs and knives. He coulda killed ’em. He shot low. We seen him.”

  One of the Fisher’s followers had been examining the victims. He called, “That’s right, Cap. Every damn one is shot below the middle.”

  Sam said, “Be best to call the doctor and then sashay on down to the dance, wouldn’t it, Captain Fisher?”

  There was one second when he thought the man would test him with his fast draw. Then it was gone, postponed, he thought, to a future date.

  Fisher ordered two of his crew, “Go for the doctor. Hold these people for questioning. I’ll talk to you later, Jones,” he added.

  “Talk to me right now. I see the emporium across the street is lighted. I’ll bet you could get it opened for me. Have to buy a fresh shirt for the dance, y’see.”

  Fisher hesitated—and was lost. Those behind him were intent, listening. He waved to them. “Go along. Help clean up this mess and then go to the dance.”

  Sam walked across the street with him, and Fisher rapped on the door locked against violence. A man peered out, then admitted them.