Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  “I’ll be around.”

  Before he could escape Vera Brazile came gliding into the hall. “Is that you, Mr. Jones? If I’d known you were coming I’d have scheduled another dance.”

  “Nice of you ma’am.” He was anxious to get away from all this fooforaw.

  “Maybe we can arrange it?”

  “I doubt it. There’s things to attend to.”

  Fisher said, “The man’s in a hurry. I think we should let him go.”

  “Thanks.” Sam backed out of the door. He heard voices as he went down the steps. He stopped dead.

  Someone was yelling, “That damn kid ruins every hoss he rides. I’m sicka this muckin’ around.”

  Sam walked around to the back of the house. A stocky man was saying, “You do like you’re told, Babbit. Or you hit the trail.”

  Sam said, “Speakin’ of horses, ain’t you missin’ some?”

  The man named Babbit wheeled around. His hand started down toward his gun butt, stopped halfway as he stared into the muzzle of Sam’s .44.

  “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, stranger.”

  The burly man said, “Now, take it easy. You’re Cemetery Jones.”

  Sam said, “I don’t like the name.”

  “Whatever. We don’t want shootin’ on this ranch.”

  “This ranch hires some crummy hands, seems like.”

  “My name’s Vaughn. I didn’t hire him nor his pardners.”

  “Then the owner oughta be more careful.”

  “Cap Fisher took on these bums,” Vaughn said. “You got anything you can say to get rid of ’em?”

  Sam said, “Could be. Don’t see any sense in it right now. Is that beat-up nag the one young Dunstan rode in an hour or so ago?”

  “Why, yes, it is. What of it?”

  “A young man got hell beat out of him by three brave ones this morning. One of the Olsen twins.”

  “Shoot, they’re nice boys, the Olsens. That’s too damn bad,” Vaughn said.

  “Where’s young Dunstan now?”

  “Sleepin’ it off, I’d say. No use to try him whilst his ma’s around.”

  “I agree. Well, sometime later.”

  Vaughn said, “Reckon you know it ain’t healthy for you in town.”

  “Nor out here, seems like.”

  “Nobody’s goin’ to pull any underhand stuff whilst I’m around,” Vaughn said. “Cy Dunstan’s my boss and he don’t hold with much neither.”

  “You know, I believe you.” Sam had seen Babbit backing off. Now he was making for the barn.

  Vaughn asked, “What was that about Babbit’s horses?”

  “You might tell him we’ve got four nags with worked over brands in Sunrise.”

  “I don’t get your drift.”

  “It ain’t the time. Let me give you a piece of advice. When the war starts—stay here and be out of it.”

  “War? You’re kinda het up, ain’t you?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t try to start any war around this shebang,” the foreman said.

  “If young Dunstan beat on Oley Olsen I might not have to start it.” Sam estimated this four square man and made a quick decision. “How do you stand on Cap Fisher?”

  Vaughn scarcely hesitated. “I’m agin him.”

  “Okay. I’ve already put a bug in your boss’s ear. If what I think is true, Fisher will be out of here someday soon. What about Babbit and his three pardners?”

  “Trash.” Vaughn added, “They could be dangerous.”

  “Any tramps with a gun is dangerous,” acknowledged Sam. “One more matter. Fisher’s house was broken into last night. You hear anything about that?”

  “A rider come out with his head bandaged. Matched Fisher’s head.”

  “Then it augurs that Fisher knows but ain’t makin’ it public.”

  Vaughn said, “I’m always behind you but I’m beginnin’ to catch up. I’ll have words with Cy. Been with him a long time. I can’t stay for true which way he’ll jump. He does listen to me about cattle. That’s my business, cows.”

  “Reckon we understand each other, Vaughn.”

  The man put out his hand. “I know your reputation, Jones. And I don’t mean as a gunfighter. Do what you must.”

  Sam rode toward town convinced that he had talked with an honest man, pleased that he had imparted enough information to accomplish his intent: to keep Cy Dunstan quiet and out of his hair. On the other hand there was the problem of young Dunstan. Nothing was assured. The rage within him had settled to simmering rather than boiling. He debated his next step as he rode.

  Young Dunstan snored, emitting alcohol fumes. Fisher shook him awake with difficulty. He yipped and threw out his arms.

  Fisher demanded, “Who was with you when you beat Oley Olsen?”

  “Monty and Doodles,” stammered the youth, not yet fully wake. Then he coughed and said, “What you talkin’ about? I don’t know nothin’ ...”

  “You dumb ass. Don’t you lie to me. Where did the others go?”

  “Uh ... they run off.” He was scared now, shaken, rubbing his eyes. “My head aches. Mama has somethin’ she gives me when my head aches.”

  “Never mind your mama. Cemetery Jones is on your trail. When and if the Olsen boy wakes up you might as well figure you’re in jail. If he dies, you’re dead.”

  “What does Jones know?”

  “He knows plenty.” Fisher’s mind was traveling at top speed. “Too damn much. I swear, I don’t know what to do with you. One thing, don’t you dare leave here. Not until this is settled. If you do, you’ll wind up dead as sure as the sun rises.”

  “Nobody’s gonna kill me. My old man ...”

  “Nobody can save you if Jones is after you. Put that in your thick skull.”

  “My head’s bustin’.”

  “I’ll send your mother. You mind what I say, now. Do not leave this ranch. In fact every time you go outdoors it could happen to you.” He made a slicing motion with his hand across his throat.

  He went downstairs knowing that he had not made an impression on the dull sensibilities of young Dunstan. It was impossible to get through to the fool. He spoke to Mrs. Dunstan who scurried up to her only offspring. Vera Brazile stared at him in quick alarm.

  “You look as if the world was coming to an end,” she said.

  “Where’s the old man?”

  “He just went out to ask Vaughn what Jones was talking about. Jones and Vaughn had a long conversation while you were upstairs.”

  “The time has come for action.” He strove to control his agitation. “We have to do something at once.”

  “I am all for that. Have you decided what should be done?”

  “Jones has to be killed.”

  “We knew that,” Vera Brazile said. “You were right. He’s smart as a snake. He got the old man to thinking. Lord knows what he said to Vaughn. I’m certain they talked about Babbit and his bunch. Babbit’s a liar and a thief.”

  “You hired him.”

  “What I did is past. What I do now is what counts. It comes down to that, lady.”

  “Careful, my friend. It sounds as if you are taking the bit in your teeth, so to speak.”

  “That’s as good as anything to believe.” His voice was low and hard. “It’s no longer a question of your money. It’s life or death.”

  “You have all those men under your spell. How is it that you can’t take care of Jones?”

  “That is precisely what I aim to accomplish.”

  “So?” Her voice was equally harsh. “And what about that which I aim to accomplish?”

  “Jones must go first. Surely you can see that.”

  “You do believe you can kill him?”

  “There’s no other way.”

  “For each of us.” She nodded. “He’s in town. Therefore you can get to him.”

  “You heard about the rifle. I’ve got to get to him soon.”

  “You’r
e the law.”

  “He broke into my house last night. I now know that. He’s looking for my rifle with that defective hammer I didn’t know about. I’ll not be carrying it. You must hide it or destroy it for me.”

  “Yes. I must.” She shrugged. “Although how I do that I have no idea.”

  There was a touch of desperation in him now. “If he closes in on me it will lead to you.”

  “You think he’s that clever?”

  “You agree.”

  “I do. Very well. First things first. Go and do the job,” she said.

  “Is that all the encouragement you can offer?”

  “This is no time for sentiment. You have your goal, I have mine. You either go forward or I find someone else to do what I want done.”

  He eyed her and felt himself turn cold. She was not the least bit interested in him, she was all for herself, every last smidgen. He said, “Yes. I see.”

  He went to his room and dressed and buckled his gun belt. His superb physical condition asserted itself; he felt no ill effects from yesterday’s accident. He went down to find Cy Dunstan and said, “I’ll resume action, now.”

  “You got well quick.” Dunstan was perturbed about his son. Sam Jones had indeed had an effect upon him.

  “I will check on what happened in town.”

  “You do that. I want to know.”

  Fisher went out to the yard and approached Vaughn. “What did Jones have to say?”

  Vaughn said shortly, “Nothin’ you’d wanta know.”

  “I do want to know.”

  “Sorry. Got nothin’ to tell you.”

  “Your boss’ll hear about this.”

  “That don’t shake me up none.”

  “I’ll want a good horse.”

  “There’s the corral. Help yourself.”

  The man was defying him but he had no recourse. He roped a dun mare and saddled her, a horse he knew had bottom. He mounted and rode out the ornate gate toward town.

  Sam stood by the bed in which Oley lay. Sven sat with hands clenching and unclenching. Cassie walked in stony-faced, unshed tears in her eyes, bearing a cold cloth, which she placed on the brow of the unconscious twin.

  “He’s breathing regular,” Sam said. “Good sign.”

  “If I knew where the others went ... ” Sven said.

  “They’ll turn up.”

  “I’ll kill them.”

  A bubble appeared on Oley’s bruised lips. His eyes fluttered, then closed again.

  Sam said soothingly, “He’s comin’ around.”

  “Or dyin’,” Sven said, his jaw muscles working.

  “No! Don’t you dare say that,” cried the girl.

  A blanket of silence fell as they all leaned toward Oley. He opened one eye. “Wha ... that you, brother?”

  Sven said, “Thank the good Lord in heaven!”

  Cassie came close and leaned to kiss the black and blue face. “Talk to us, darlin’, talk to us!”

  “Hey, there.” The voice seemed to come from a far place.

  “Who did it?” Sven demanded.

  The faint smile turned to a frown. “The Kid.”

  “And who else?”

  “Doodles ... Monty ...” The eyes closed again. “Gotta rest. We’ll get ’em ... Cassie?”

  “I’m here. I’m right here.”

  “I’ll be ... be ... all ... right.” Oley drifted off. A bit of color had returned to him.

  “Now you know,” Sam said. “He’s goin’ to live. Describe the two besides Dunstan to me.”

  Sven tried. Cassie interrupted, “Doodles looks like he was born dumb. Monty looks like a black devil.”

  “I’ll know ’em.” He started for the door. “Take good care of him and yourselves. Keep the door locked and a gun or two handy. They may want to get at him again.”

  “So he can’t tell on ’em,” Sven said. “I’ll be ready.” He took down a double barreled shotgun from the wall. “I’ll load it with buck. I’ll blast ’em in two if they come here.”

  Cassie said, “Get me a gun.”

  “Keep a watch,” Sam told them. “I’ll be back.” But he knew that a surprise attack in force could overcome them. He went to the black horse and mounted. There was too much time before Beaver could arrive. He had to do something profitable with that time.

  He rode to the neighborhood where the musicians dwelt. There were people around. He dared not be seen near the cabin. He sought a place to leave the horse where it might be safe. It was the time to take chances.

  He had once read in one of Haldeman’s Little Blue Books, that had come free with Bull Durham tobacco before he had quit smoking, a story called “The Purloined Letter” by a writer named Poe. The sought-for missive was in plain sight in a drawer, overlooked by the searchers. He knew Fisher’s discipline had slacked off when he had been hurt. He put the two thoughts together and rode a wide perimeter around the cabin. He saw no outposts. He dismounted beneath the skinny tree of his night visits. He walked without haste to the window and called, “It’s the man from Sunrise. Open your door a crack.”

  He sauntered as though to pass the door, then ducked inside. The voice he remembered as being Pompey’s said, “Man, you crazy. Have a nip.”

  The interior was as neat as a pin. They had managed to whitewash the walls, and there was a faded rug on the dirt floor. In the only other room, spacious enough, there were three beds made up and clean. There was a stove in the kitchen-front room, and chairs wound with wire and a bench on which sat the other two, the fiddler Hambone and the horn man Jeb. They grinned at Sam as he accepted the bottle and took a sip of very bad whiskey.

  Sam asked, “What have you heard lately?”

  “Town’s a buzzin’ ’bout the Olsen boy. Town knows you was there to he’p. Two bad boys rode no’th.” Pompey was the spokesman as always.

  “You think the kids with the blue shirts won’t stick with Fisher now?”

  “Cats don’ run with dogs.”

  “There’s enough dirty dogs without the cats,” Sam said. “Still and all it would be good if none of the good boys got hurt.”

  “You goin’ to start up.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Any minute. You be ready.”

  “Fo’ what, like?”

  “For anything.”

  “Lady sent word maybe a dance tomorrow night. Maybe even tonight if she can get to the people,” Pompey said.

  “Any way you could spread the word to the people?”

  “Black he’p. Messican he’p. All stick together.”

  “Put out the word,” Sam said.

  Pompey was puzzled. “Why you want dancin’?”

  “Keep folks off the streets. Maybe bring the goddam Dunstan kid to town. Lots of reasons.”

  Pompey shook his head. “You somethin’, you man from Sunrise. You gonna put the bad ones in the cemetery I bet.”

  Jeb picked up his horn. Hambone put the fiddle under his chin. They began to play a tune Sam had not heard before. “What’s the name of that one?” he asked.

  “Funeral tune in N’yorleens. ‘When The Saints Come Marchin’ In.’ It’s gen’rally played after the buryin’.”

  “It ain’t that sad.” They had picked up the pace.

  “It’s for when yo’ is comin’ home from the funer’l.” Pompey spread his hands. “Le’s hope on it.”

  Sam unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out a waterproof money belt. He took bills from it and handed them to Pompey. The other two stopped playing, their eyes as round as saucers. He said, “Just in case, there’s enough to get you out of town.”

  Pompey asked, “Wha’ for?”

  “The music,” Sam told him. “The music helps. Never stop playin’ it.”

  He opened the door, looked, saw no danger. He waved to the still-stunned musicians and went to his horse. He was on a roll, he thought, just acting as if nothing could deter him. He rode back to the main stem and tied up at the general store. He went in and there were people doing busin
ess but they seemed to pay no heed to him. He found a bandoleer hanging from a rafter. He bought enough ammunition to fill it. He carried it out to his saddlebag. He led his horse to the hotel. Dixon was behind the desk.

  Sam said, “I must be invisible. Nobody’s takin’ shots at me today in broad daylight.”

  “The town may be owned by Dunstan but mortgages can’t buy hearts,” Dixon said soberly. “What happened to Oley has got into ’em.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “They got a notion,” the hotel man said. “They seen the Dunstan boy ride south and Monty and Doodles ride north. They know all three was drunk as skunks the night before. People put two and two together. Then they stop and think suppose it was them.”

  “I believe their notion is correct,” Sam said. “What are they goin’ to do about it?”

  “Set on their hands. Fear is stronger than wantin’.”

  Sam said, “I want to pay my bill. I’ll take my bedroll. It don’t mean I’m not comin’ back.”

  Dixon said, “If it wasn’t the old man’s son.”

  “Right.”

  “I sure hope you can do somethin’. I don’t see how.”

  “Alone I haven’t a snowball’s chance in hell.” Sam paid his bill. “If you’ll put me up some grub?”

  He took his bedroll and a bag of food outside to the saddle. He mounted and rode north. The sun was lowering; he had plenty of time to reach the cabin on the hillside. He thought hard about ways and means. If he could locate the pair who had been with Kid Dunstan he might gain some ground. He might bring them in and force Fisher’s hand. They were Fisher’s men, he had to be responsible. If he could separate Fisher from Dunstan ... it came down to Fisher, he knew. He had failed to find the rifle. He could not be positive that Fisher had fired upon Renee. He still couldn’t imagine any reason why the man should have done so.

  Therefore, he thought suddenly, Fisher may have been hired.

  Unless ... unless under another name Fisher was part of Renee’s past and unbeknownst to her had reason to want her dead.

  Fisher was Dunstan’s man and surely the mayor had no vendetta against Renee.

  He was going around and around, he realized. There was a cog missing in the machinery of his skull. Until it was fitted into the puzzle he had to work on instinct and pray for luck.

  He came to the turnoff as the sun was drooping down into the western hills. He loosened the girth of the horse and removed the bridle so that it could graze. He ate sparingly of the cold food provided by Dixon. He hunkered down with his back against the ramshackle cabin and prepared for another time of waiting.