Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  “Ain’t no trouble betwixt friends. You have lifted our hearts with your music. We’re plumb proud of you,” the mayor said.

  Tears moistened her eyes. “If anyone is hurt ...”

  “When you’re on the watch it ain’t easy for anybody to try what’s been tried. You sure you ain’t got a notion?”

  “Dead sure. I’d give anything if I did.”

  “What can’t be helped must be endured.” He patted her shoulder and went to the poker table. He was trying hard not to show the concern that they all felt, she knew.

  Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Long John and Ike Simson, two of Tustin’s cowboys, come through the door. She played their favorite dance tune, “Buffalo Gals”. They waved to her but went to the bar. Tustin had brought them in to help protect her, she thought. It did not make her feel any better. Those hardworking men needed their fun. She finished the number and went to her table in the rear, Dog on her heels. She sat down and Casey came over, bringing a bottle of whiskey. They poured, and she felt the drink all the way down to her toes. It did not help.

  Adam Burr came in. He was wearing his gun, which was unusual. She was altering the habits of everyone, she thought. The preacher and George Spade followed Adam and all gathered at her table. Casey poured for them.

  Adam said, “Clay is a carpenter. He and George will work together on the church. Clay can also draw the plans. Some preacher we have here.”

  “That’s real good news,” Casey said.

  Renee’s mind came back to the present. “Could you take a look at Sam’s house also?”

  “Why ... I’m looking for work of any kind.” Lomax straightened his back. “You people.”

  Adam said, “George can use two good hands. He’s walking around complaining that time’s going by and nothing’s done.”

  “You bet,” the carpenter said. “Golly, if there’s a death you could he’p me with the buryin’, too.”

  Lomax swallowed, then said gamely, “I could do that.”

  So it was decided. Renee tried with all her might to put her mind to the building of the house. It was a good try, but it did not work.

  What it did do, she realized, was bind the new preacher to Sunrise and its inhabitants. She could see it in him, the realization that he had come to a place where he was accepted at face value. Friends, she thought; here were the greatest of friends, a blessing she could cling to in the absence of Sam Jones.

  They had taken Steve Fisher to the Dunstan place. The women had attended to him. Vera Brazile was with him in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

  “I can’t appear to be weak,” he said. “I must be up and about.”

  “You can’t be up and about. You brought it on yourself. Now you must rest.”

  “I will make it. They must see that I am strong enough to overcome disaster.”

  “There’s no disaster. Merely an accident.” She smiled at him. “You will remain here until I release you.”

  He reached out a hand. “I would be a willing prisoner.”

  She drew back. “No. I told you, no, until the business here is finished.”

  “It was not so on the riverboat.”

  “Where you were gambling away your money.”

  “Where you hired me.”

  “You’ve been paid.”

  “I gave you what you wanted.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I worked for you. I found your prey,” Fisher said.

  “You also failed me.”

  “I am not finished with that.”

  “You had better not be. That is why I am here,” Vera Brazile told him.

  “Everyone else failed you.”

  “Granted. That is not the point. We have an agreement. There can be nothing between us until it is settled.”

  He said, “It will be accomplished.”

  “I am not wealthy enough to hold out much longer. Associating with these churls is not my idea of life, you know.”

  “Nor mine. Yet there is opportunity here. Great opportunity. We could do as well in Dunstan. Establish a position of power.” His eyes glowed. “There is no limit in this country.”

  “At this moment there are stumbling blocks. There is, for instance, the man Jones.”

  “Nothing. An ignorant gunman.”

  “My dear,” she said, “you have ambition, that is good. But you have limited vision. The man Jones is not to be dismissed. He is far more than he appears.”

  “I saw you charming him on the dance floor. I did not realize he was charming you.”

  “Jealousy is not becoming to you. The man is a force. Take care.”

  “I will be ready when the time comes.”

  “Make sure your bully boys are on hand.”

  He said, “I’ll not need them.”

  “Pride goeth before a fall. Rest now, take care of your health. I need you, Steve.” She leaned to kiss him on the cheek.

  He said, “You are a strong woman, Vera. We can go far together. You must have been terribly harmed in the past. It will all be forgotten when we succeed.”

  “Yes. When we triumph.”

  She left the room. He was only partly a fool, she thought. He was certainly brave. If he had what it took all would be well. He was lacking in many respects. He could be fooled if he was offered power. She did not want power. She wanted a man and the man was not Fisher.

  She had been orphaned early. There was money enough to pursue her career in the ballet, but she had lost interest when she sprained an ankle. A life in New York society had become her utmost desire. Then she had met the man. The affair had been swift, and she had loved him. At least she had loved him as far as her nature allowed. She wanted him; she wanted what he could give her. It was not the same dream as that of Steve Fisher. It was position she craved. It was ironic that here, in this miserable western town she had position. How they envied her, these crude women of the West. How easy it had been.

  It would be simple to go with Fisher’s dream, even to marry him if necessary. She was aware that she could twist old Cy Dunstan around her finger if it came to that. Tough as he was he could be flattered into doing anything she desired; it was his only weakness. Fisher would be a slave ... he was right about the opportunity to be found in this country, but he too had the weakness for a woman like herself.

  They did not know her. She was obsessed. There was iron in her that could only be heated by getting that one man. It had been tempered by the mixture of love and hate.

  Sam Jones called upon his total recall of terrain once traveled. It was a dark night; only one star twinkled in an otherwise clear sky. He rode circuitously to the cabin of the black musicians. He tied up his horse to the thin tree and made his way to the window. They were again playing the music of their own. Pompey was crooning. He stood for a moment, soaking it in. He heard the cry for freedom, for lives of their own. When they stopped to drink from their bottle he called to them.

  “It’s the man from Sunrise.”

  There was a profound silence.

  “I want to talk some more,” he said.

  “You got anything for us?” one of them whispered.

  “I’ve got ten dollars.”

  “I hears you, man from the town sounds like heaven.”

  A hand reached out. Sam put ten dollars in it. He said, “Heaven it ain’t. Better than this hole, though.”

  “Anything would be!”

  “There’s no watchman here. How come?”

  There was a chuckle. “Boss man, he bunged up. Lady boss, she got him over to mayor’s house.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Gets around.”

  They called it “the underground” during the War. The downtrodden and have-nots always knew what was going on in the world. Word of events spread like wild fire.

  “What happened?” Sam asked.

  “Boss man tried too hard. Got hit inna head. Tryin’ t’ swim when he shoulda been thinkin’.”

  “When’s the n
ext dance lesson?”

  “Soon. Boss lady ain’t said.”

  “You boys okay?”

  “Got vittles. Got likker. Got music.”

  “I’ll be sashayin’ around. Stay strong.”

  “Ain’t no t’other way, Mister Sunrise.”

  “I’ll be talkin’ with you.” Sam went back to the horse. The musicians were enduring better than most men would, he thought. He rode the back way to the Olsen house. He went afoot to where there was a light and called.

  Sven answered. “That you, Mr. Jones?”

  “It ain’t my brother. What happened to Fisher?”

  Sven said, “He bit off more’n he could chew. He’s got sand, though, gotta give him credit.”

  “Just where’s his place?”

  “You go straight south. It’s adobe, low and kinda deep. Better watch yourself.”

  “Your brother with you?”

  “No, he’s with Cassie Dixon.”

  “Can I borrow a pry bar of some kind? And a candle?”

  “Sure.” There was a tool shed in the back yard. Sven came with a lighted candle and they found the required tool. Sven said, “You goin’ to break in?”

  “I’m looking for something important.”

  “You want help?”

  “No. I don’t want you boys in this thing. It’s enough you’re on my side.”

  “We don’t like what’s goin’ on, Mr. Jones. Somehow it don’t seem right.”

  “Just stay home and keep quiet for now. I appreciate it.”

  Sam left the black horse under an oak tree and walked. It was difficult in the dark, in strange territory, but his cat eyes stood him in good stead. If he stumbled, he regained balance; his instinct kept him on a direct course. It was a night as black as any he could remember. After what seemed an interminable time he could distinguish the house described by Sven, a vague outline. He came to the north wall and felt his way along to the rear.

  There was the sound of men walking. He flattened himself on the ground against the house. Figures came to within a few yards of where he lay. He drew his gun and held his breath. The two men paused, almost invisible, shadows against deeper shadows.

  A voice said, “Darker’n a bull’s belly with its tail down.”

  “Sure is. This is a dumb job.”

  “Cap’s mighty tetchy about his house these days, ain’t he?”

  “He’s got the wind up, all right.”

  “He looked good out there this mornin’, though.”

  “He looked damn bad if’n you ask me.”

  “He come out of it good.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Sure. Never whimpered when we was totin’ him down to Dunstan’s.”

  “After he made a fool of hisself.”

  “That’s what it takes, like he said.”

  After a moment the second man said, “Mebbe you’re right.”

  “Cap, he’s got the right notion. Git ready for anything.”

  “Takes too much of my time.”

  They moved, walking slowly to the front of the house. Sam had no desire to attack them; he had nothing with which to tie them up. He waited until he thought they were safely out of hearing and darted to where the rear door must be located.

  He used the pry bar with dispatch. The portal gave, cracking. He poised, ears ringing with the sound, still unable to see clearly in the black night.

  There was no sound outdoors. He slid into the house. He replaced the door as well as he could, making as little noise as possible. He put the pry bar at its base. It was blacker than the night inside the room, which he determined by touch was the kitchen. He groped his way along the walls. The blinds were drawn tight. Even in the darkness he felt the orderliness of the place.

  He took a taper from his vest pocket and lit the candle. Again he waited. For the first time since he had quit smoking years before he wished for a cigarette. He took a deep breath to steady himself down.

  He moved into the next room. He saw a man staring at him. He drew his gun and almost fired. Then he realized he was looking into a full length mirror.

  His laughter, stifled but deep, brought him back to earth. Captain Steve Fisher had a looking glass in which to admire himself. How many knew of this phase of the hard man’s character?

  Sam shaded the candle with one hand and looked around the room. There was the sparse furniture, hard floors. And against one wall there was a gun rack. He pounced.

  One by one he conned four rifles—two Winchesters, one the 1873 model center fire, the second the latest make; an Enfield, and a Remington. He examined the hammers, holding the candle as close as possible without dripping wax upon them. That wax fell upon the polished floor he cared not. The broken door would reveal that someone had broken in.

  The weapons were in mint condition. There was not a scar on any one of the hammers. None had fired the shot that had so narrowly missed Renee.

  I could be, he thought, on the wrong track.

  On the other hand Fisher undoubtedly had had a rifle with him earlier that day when he took his men on maneuvers.

  He prowled through the rooms, noting the sparse furnishings. Fisher was a character of a sort he thought he knew. The man tried to live hard in order to make himself hard. It was a condition to question—whether to admire or suspect.

  It was fruitless to look further. Sam went to the door he had unhinged and picked up the steel bar. He edged his way out, then tilted the door so that it closed. He snuffed the candle and was turning when two arms enfolded him from behind.

  He writhed, kicking backward. Someone swiped at his head with a gun barrel, nearly knocking him out. He flailed, realizing that he was caught between two of them, that he had not a chance in a thousand of getting free.

  He made one last desperate, writhing, fighting attempt. Then he relaxed, hoping they would fall for the old wrestling trick and loosen their hold.

  It seemed to work. He was free. He spun and struck with the pry bar.

  He felt it go home. He flailed again. The second man emitted a hoarse cry and fell away. Sam struck again and he was free, and the two were down and not stirring. He felt around in the dark, breathless from the struggle. He managed to locate each man’s gun. He removed them, emptied them, and threw them away as far as he could.

  It had been stupid to back out of the house, he thought. He had been lucky. He retraced his steps. He found Midnight and rode back to the Olsen house. Sven was waiting in the back yard. A wind came up at last. He shivered, sweaty from his exertions.

  Sven said, “I was worried.”

  “You had a right to be. Howsomever, here’s your bar and your candle.”

  Sven said, “Got a telegram. My folks are stranded in Texas by a storm. You want to sleep here?”

  “No. Like I said, it might get you boys in Dutch. I’ll sneak into the hotel.”

  “Oley hasn’t come home.”

  “I’ll look for him. Thanks for helpin’.”

  “Wish I could do more,” Sven said.

  “Maybe you can some time.”

  Sam took the back way. The wind increased and now there was a sliver of moon to light his way. He put the black horse in the stable behind the hotel and unsaddled and found some grain for the feed box. He went around to the front of the hotel, uncaring now whether or not he was seen. There were, he knew, people in the shadows. There was neither sound nor movement. They remembered the last time, he supposed. He entered the hotel and found Oley and Cassie in the dining room.

  Cassie said, “It’s Mr. Jones. I knew he’d be back.”

  “You sure got your nerve,” Oley said.

  “You mean I’m not welcome?”

  “Heck no. I mean after what happened and all. Set down. I’ll get you a drink. Mr. Dixon’s gone to bed, we’re in charge.”

  “I’d like some vittles if you could find ’em.”

  “That’s my job,” Cassie said. “They’ll be cold, though.”

  “My belly won’t know the differe
nce,” Sam told her.

  Oley brought a bottle. “Anything you want to know, Mr. Jones?”

  “I’d admire to have you drop the mister. Plain Sam’ll do.”

  “Sven’s at home.”

  “I know. Your folks are stuck in Texas. Cap Fisher got a knock on the head.”

  Oley said seriously, “Sven told me. You know he wanted to send one of the men in that river. He’s like to get somebody hurt bad one of these days.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  The twin went on, “Me and Sven, we been talkin’ about it. Cap and that dancin’ lady got old Dunstan by the short hairs, looks like. The mayor’s a tough old bird but maybe he can be fooled like anyone else.”

  Cassie came with cold cuts and fresh bread and butter and coffee and cake. They talked. Sam worried that Oley might be seen with him, then decided it would be considered a chance encounter. It was a time for relaxation after a long, hard day.

  No western town was without its Rafferty’s Saloon. It provided an oasis for the down and out, the disreputable, the saddle bum. It reeked of stale smoke and liquor fumes. Over the bar was a chromo of a reclining, near naked odalisque to stir the dreams, fly specked and slightly awry. Behind the bar, which was scarred and slightly sloped, Rafferty loomed, dirty shirt open, unshaven.

  Three Mexicans gesticulated, spouting rapid Spanish, waving their arms. Suddenly one drew a knife. Rafferty walked without haste to the scene. He seized two of the participants by the scruff of their necks and banged them together. He kicked the third in the groin. He then threw them out, one at a time.

  A dilapidated cowboy said, “Seems like you couldn’t afford to do that, Rafferty.” There were only two customers remaining, the speaker and a waif asleep in a corner.

  Rafferty said, “What I do, I can do. T’hell with it.”

  “Gimme a drink.” The man counted out coins. “Last one for me.”

  Rafferty poured rotgut into a four ounce glass. It was his boast that he never cheated on drinks; he gave the full tot.

  He said, “Finish that one and the house’ll buy.”

  The man tossed it down. “You got your good points all right. I’ll say that for you.”

  “You better had. I don’t take no guff.”