Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  “You oughta have as much business as that fancy joint down the street. Robinson’s so stuck-up he won’t allow honest people in the place.”

  “Don’t you worry none about me. I got my ways.”

  “You’re a good man, I don’t care what they say.” The cowboy drank the free offering and staggered out into the night where the moon had just made its appearance.

  Rafferty came from behind the bar and kicked at the feet of the last customer. The man started up, staring wildly about.

  Rafferty said, “Go sleep someplace else.”

  The man croaked, “Ain’t got no place to sleep.”

  “Here’s two bits. There’s a Mex flophouse four places down. Don’t go uptown or the damn marshal’ll have you in a hoosegow.”

  “Thankee.” The man wandered out. Rafferty locked the door. He reached under the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey no customer would ever taste. He went into the bare back room that contained two chairs and a table with the bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.

  He thought about the cowboy’s remark, “I don’t care what they say.” He had accepted it as a compliment, now he knew it was not. They said things about him, that was for sure. It had never been any different.

  He had been a street kid in New York, one of the Five Points gang. There had been a riot and the police had caught him stealing from a broken shop window. A lousy cheap pistol it had been and they had beaten him and thrown him in jail.

  When he was released they had chivvied him until he knew he had to leave the city.

  He had come west and found his career selling whiskey to the Indians in North Dakota. When he had accumulated enough cash he had moved south out of the cold winters and eventually to Sunrise in its infancy. He had been through battle with Sam Jones and others and had barely survived. He nursed a grudge that racked him to the bone.

  There was a tap on the back door. He opened it and the expected visitor entered, a dark man, thin and of medium height, wearing a black hat and a mustache to match. He wore sweat-stained brown pants, brown boots, and a brown shirt, under a Mexican serape which he doffed as he sat down hard in the chair Rafferty had vacated.

  Rafferty said, “I was expectin’ you, Frank.”

  “Hell of a ride, back and forth, back and forth.”

  “If it wasn’t for the dinero, we’d both quit, wouldn’t we?”

  The man called Frank took out a small pouch and tossed it to Rafferty. It clinked solidly with the sound of coin. Rafferty caught it and put it in his pocket and filled the extra glass with whiskey. “The good stuff. What you wanta know?”

  “The usual.”

  “Jones is in Dunstan.”

  “Damn. I must’ve missed him.”

  “Now y’know. The dame? Just try to get near her. The whole goddam town is watchin’ over her since you tossed that dynamite into the joint.”

  “That figures. Anything else?”

  “They got a new preacher. They’re gonna build a damn church. The town’s gone to hell altogether.”

  “Who cares? All I want is news of the dame. This here’s the lousiest job I ever hired on to do and I’ve had a few.”

  “I bet you have. Well, you’re better off than Cactus Joe.”

  “Joe wasn’t the worst sidekick in the country. Kilt by a damn woman. Ugh!”

  “That woman’s got the town by the butt. Her and that damn Cemetery Jones carryin’ on,” Rafferty said.

  “You gettin’ religion for the new preacher?”

  “Huh! Thing is, any other woman behavin’ like that, ev’body’d be hollerin’ and yellin’.”

  “Y’ can’t count on nothin’ no more,” Frank said.

  “Only this.” Rafferty jingled the coins. They drank, and Rafferty went on, “You never can say where this comes from. Right?”

  “Right. I aim to live.”

  “Must be plenty of it.”

  “Seems so.” Frank closed up, staring at the ceiling.

  Rafferty raised his glass. “Up the Irish, Maguire.”

  “How’d you know my name’s Maguire?”

  “You told me when we was drinkin’ that time.”

  “Up the Irish.”

  Rafferty said, “Must be plenty of dinero in Dunstan.”

  Frank Maguire shook his head. “Best you shut up and take the money. Mind your own damn business.”

  “So long as some of it comes my way. Mebbe I’ll move to Dunstan when this is finished.”

  “Make sure you live to make it there,” Maguire said. “I got to sleep. These rides are killin’ me altogether.”

  “You know the way.”

  “You sure you don’t know anything that’ll help?”

  “I’m tellin’ you, she’s got the town watchin’ and a stinkin’ dog followin’ every step she takes. You’d need an army to get to her these days.”

  Maguire finished his drink. “I’m goin’. Keep your eyes and ears open, Rafferty.” He went out the door like a wraith. The man was spooky, thought Rafferty. He would lead his horse, spent from the ride, to a certain squalid Mexican shed where it would be fed and cared for. In the early morning he would be gone with the wind.

  He was a born killer, Rafferty knew, like his partner Cactus Joe. There were a few of them left in the country, and they could be hired by anyone who could afford them.

  He blew out his lamp and went upstairs to his bed. Killing a woman wasn’t something he would think of on his own. However, he had no compunction about the riddance of anyone connected with Sam Jones—or El Sol.

  Clayton Lomax sat at the kitchen table with a drawing board, a T-square, and a triangle plus a dozen pencils, all provided by the indefatigable Mama Wagner. Across from him was Missy Wagner, eyes bright, watching him begin to design the Sunrise church.

  She said, “Mama is really upset about the spire and all. I don’t see how you convinced her.”

  “Your mother is a discerning lady. She realizes that only so much can be done in the beginning.”

  Missy hesitated, then said, “Mama has her problems. Papa goes to the poker game at El Sol almost every night. I think she hopes she can get him to meetings in the church when it’s built.”

  “My idea is to make it a gathering place for all.”

  “I know. That’s why Mama went along with your plans. But you don’t know Papa.”

  “Time’ll tell.” He bent closer over his work. “You can’t force religion upon anyone. That’s why I left the traditional church, you know.”

  “Yes. Well ... Mama wanted me to ask you about that.”

  “What about it?” He leaned back and looked at her.

  “Well, were you ordained?”

  “No. I have my degree, Doctor of Divinity. Isn’t that enough?”

  “For me, oh, dear yes. And for all of Sunrise. Adam Burr said you were his friend. That’s good enough.”

  “Mama had doubts,” Lomax said.

  “Not really. The preacher who rides the circuit, he probably never saw a college. It’s just she was raised Methodist. She sure argued with that fellow when he came to town. You see, with the two of us to keep house, she has a lot of time on her hands.”

  “I understand. Anything else she wanted to know?”

  “Well ... you drink beer and all. You’re a lot like Adam.” She blushed. “I mean, you both come from the same place. Lawsy me, was he a pilgrim when he landed here.”

  “Pilgrim?”

  “That’s western for a stranger. Mainly from the East. Adam wore the strangest clothing. He was—he seemed to be—greener than you.”

  “He was a wild one in Princeton. We sparred together. He’s strong as a young bull.”

  “Oh, yes. He fought here once. When we were having trouble.”

  “I heard about the trouble from him.”

  “No matter what Mama says about Sam Jones, he saved the town. Adam, too.” She giggled. Her rather plain face lit up so that she was pretty in the soft light. “You’re not like a preacher at
all. I bet if you were here during the trouble you’d have been fighting along with the others.”

  “Thank you, I think.” Now they were grinning at each other, attuned. “I believe in religion and fun. I don’t see how you can have one without the other.”

  “Do you play poker, too?”

  “Now that’s where I draw the line. I wouldn’t look so good sitting in El Sol holding cards and smoking a cigarette, would I?”

  “I can just see Mama’s face!”

  “I wouldn’t blame her. A true preacher is supposed to marry, stay home with his wife and children—unless he’s on church business.”

  She sobered. “What else is there for a nice girl to do in Sunrise? That’s why Peggy McLaine—” She stopped, biting her lip.

  “Peggy? Adam’s wife?”

  “I shouldn’t talk about her. We’re not real friendly but ... I shouldn’t say.”

  “I’ll learn about her sooner or later. Better I should be warned, possibly?”

  “She lost her folks. What could she do, marry a cowpoke? Wait on tables if she could get the job?”

  “So?”

  “She was—a dance hall girl.”

  “Something in the way you say that makes me think there is more to it,” the preacher said.

  “Well ...” Her voice trailed off, she flushed.

  “I think I see.”

  “She’s a wonderful girl. Adam loves her dearly. Her best friend is Renee Hart. Renee teaches her—lots of things. She loves Adam a heap.”

  He reached out to touch her hand. “What you are saying is that you cannot find it in yourself to pass judgment. That is truly fine.”

  She did not remove her hand. “They say the West is hard on women and dogs,” she said dryly. “It’s true, you know. Even the dog that Sam Jones found is treated better than Peggy McLaine was.”

  “It’s changing, isn’t it? For the better?”

  “Yes. Mama doesn’t give enough credit to Sam Jones and Papa and lots of other men, but they try.”

  “We can hope the church will help.” He returned to the drawing board. “Now what do you think about the roof? What’s best for this country?”

  “Wooden shingles,” she said. “Peaked roof.”

  “Just what I had in mind.”

  She said, “Would you like to hear about the trouble? It’s a fierce story. Our old marshal was killed.”

  “Tell me. You tell a story very well.” She beamed and began to tell the tale of how Sam Jones had sold the Long John Mine to a pair of swindlers who had then enlisted outlaws to rob the bank and take over the town, and how Adam had fought the giant black man and Sam had used an old cannon to foil the invaders, and how Adam had inherited the mine and other moneys because one of the swindlers had murdered his father.

  She had a nice light voice, and he listened with great interest until Mama Wagner called her daughter for bed.

  The night stage rattled into Sunrise. Marshal Donovan was waiting in the shadows. A drummer climbed down, then a tall man wearing a drooping mustache, city garb, and a long Colt dangling in a filigreed holster. Donkey stepped into the light from the station.

  “Howdy, mister.”

  “Howdy, Marshal.” The man’s voice was low, steady.

  “Name of Donovan.”

  “I’m Earp. Wyatt Earp.”

  “The hell you say!”

  “Just passin’ through. I heard Sam Jones was livin’ hereabouts.”

  “Sam’s outa town. But there’s folk would like to shake your hand, Mr. Earp.”

  “Is there a poker game goin’ in town?”

  “Nothin’ that would interest you. Dollar limit. The Mayor and such.”

  “Let’s look at it.”

  “Too bad Sam ain’t here. Let’s go over to El Sol. Folks will be glad to meet Wyatt Earp.”

  The famous man of Abilene and Dodge City grinned. “There’s plenty wouldn’t admire that meetin’ too much. However a thirst is a thirst and a game is a game. Lead on.”

  On the way across the street Donovan asked, “Any chance you stickin’ around for a while?”

  “Nope. Have to meet Bat Masterson in Arizona. Town called Tombstone.”

  “I heard about the place. Got some troubles there.”

  “No problems of mine. Just meetin’ Bat and Luke Short for a go-around.” They came to the swinging doors of El Sol. Renee was playing Mozart with variations of her own. Earp stopped and listened. When she had finished he said, “Heard music like that in New York one time. Only this here’s different.”

  “Renee, she’s somethin’,” Donovan said. He added, “She and Sam, they’re close.”

  “Thanks for tellin’ me.” Earp took another long look at Renee. “That’s Sam all over. He always did have the best taste in womankind.”

  The occupants of the saloon were now staring at Donovan and the tall man. Donovan announced, “Folks, this here is Wyatt Earp.”

  Mayor Wagner came from the poker table. “Welcome, Earp, welcome. Come have a nip.”

  Donkey Donovan said, “’Scuse me, folks,” and tore himself away, back into the streets lighted by dim kerosene lamps, but still lighted, a big step forward in the history of Sunrise. He was in his twenties, probably the youngest marshal in the West. He had been trained by the veteran Dick Land who had been killed in the trouble the previous year. Donkey was married and had a child. He was sturdy and conscientious and had the confidence of the town.

  His deputy had been working the day shift, therefore the marshal was in for a long night. He walked Main Street, knowing every inch of it, every nook and cranny of the byways. He noted that Rafferty’s was closed early, not for the first time. This would have been a good thing except that there had to be such a joint as Rafferty’s. Those not welcome in El Sol had to have a place of their own. He knew this and regretted it but had no solution. He did not bother his practical mind with the problem. Several doors past Rafferty’s there was a light in the house of Francesco Diego, a man to be suspected of any small crime, a sometime bartender for Rafferty. He thought of knocking on the door and reflected that Francesco was not truly dangerous and continued his round, turned, and started back. He needed a dozen deputies, he thought, and then realized he had that many, counting the people who knew about Renee and were watchful. He wondered for the hundredth time who would want to kill that nice lady. It was far beyond his imagination. He could only do his job.

  There was a light in a window of the Wagner house. The new preacher seemed like a fine fellow. A church would be a good thing, Donkey thought, not that he was religious, nor was his sturdy farm girl wife, but all and all, lots of people wanted a place to worship.

  He walked down past the blacksmith shop where the historic cannon was covered against the weather. He came back to his office behind which were empty prison cells and unlocked the door and trimmed the wick on his lighted lamp. He came out and went diagonally across the street and past the bank to El Sol. He went in and ordered a beer from Shaky and wandered to the poker table where Wyatt Earp was sitting in with the members of the town council.

  A hand of stud was in progress. There was perhaps ten dollars in the pot and only two players were left, Mayor Wagner and Earp.

  Earp showed a king and no pair.

  Wagner showed a queen and no pair. Earp’s hat was tilted over his nose; his concentration was complete. Wagner’s face was expressionless. One would imagine there were hundreds of dollars at stake.

  Tullis was dealing. Earp drew a trey, matching nothing, leaving him king high. Wagner drew a trey, matching nothing, leaving him king high. Earp drew a deuce with the same result.

  The mayor said, “Your bet.”

  Earp studied his hand, then that of his opponent. He drawled, “Lemme see. Everybody bet, then dropped. You stayed without a raise. This here is complicated. Have you got a pair? Have I?”

  Wagner said, “Your bet, Wyatt.”

  Earp said, “Okay. I bet a dollar.”

  “Raise a dollar,”
Wagner said, stony, cold.

  “You paired,” Earp said resignedly. “Well ... I call.”

  Wagner turned over his hole card. It was a queen, giving him the pair.

  Earp sighed. “I should’ve knowed. Still, a man’s got to find out for sure.” Wagner was triumphant. He crowed, “Now I can tell my grandchillun that I won a pot from the great gambler Wyatt Earp.” He raked in the money. “Drinks are on me.”

  Earp said, “Plenty people won pots from me, Mayor. Can’t give you another chance, I’m afraid. I have to get some sleep before takin’ that stage tomorrow morning.”

  They all drank and they all wished him well. He went to Renee and bent over her hand in the most courtly fashion and said, “I wouldn’t have missed your music for a dozen pots. Give my regards to Sam, all of you, please. A very good night.”

  Donovan accompanied him to the hotel. He asked, “You got any advice for a green marshal?”

  Earp fingered his luxurious mustache. “Tell me, Marshal, would you have played that last hand like I did?”

  “Well ... no. But y’see, I’m onto the mayor. He never stays in unless he has ’em.”

  “Nevertheless. You got to know when to fold ’em. Luke Short, he’d have dropped out. Bat Masterson too. And Sam Jones is a faster draw than me. And you broke in under Dick Land, one of the best ever lived, rest his soul.”

  “Well, but ...”

  “But me no buts, Marshal. You can shoot straight, they tell me. Sometimes that’s better’n a fast draw. Make sure. Most quick ones shoot without aimin’. That’s about the only advice I can give you.”

  “Dick Land, he told me that.”

  “He had a hand in my younger days. Give my very best to Sam now. Make sure,” Earp said.

  “You might could catch him in Dunstan.”

  “Wish I could. But Bat’s waitin’ on me. Good night.”

  “Good night and a pleasant trip.” Donkey watched the tall man enter the hotel. One of the best-known figures in the land and his advice had been stale. In fact, he had admitted being wrong. Maybe that was a lesson in itself. Suddenly he no longer felt too young and too new at his job. He settled himself in to watch the doors of El Sol lest another attack be made upon Renee. It was not as lonely as it had been before Wyatt Earp had come to town.