Vera Brazile said brightly, “Isn’t it wonderful how quickly we can gather our friends?”
Mrs. Dunstan said dubiously, “Not as many as last time. Dixon and his daughter won’t be there nor the Olsen twins. I dunno, there is somethin’ funny goin’ on, seems to me.”
“Nonsense,” said the dancing woman. “There’ll be enough people to learn the pattern of the cotillion.”
Cy Dunstan, slightly tipsy after a huge meal and several whiskeys, said, “Might’s well have a good time.”
“Captain Fisher ain’t goin’, neither,” complained his wife. “I swear I don’t know what all’s goin’ on.”
“Better get ready to leave,” the mayor said. “Time’s a-wastin’.”
“I don’t see why my boy can’t go.” Mrs. Dunstan sniffled. “Why does he have to stay home?”
“Far as I’m concerned he can go. We got so few anyway,” Dunstan said. “Make an exception.” He paused, then said darkly, “Not that he mightn’t be in trouble again.”
“He says he doesn’t want to attend,” Vera Brazile said.
“He ain’t stayin’ out here all alone.”
Now Mama Dunstan was decisive. “You tell him, Cy. He’s gotta go.”
Amiable, draining the last of his drink, the mayor said, “Whatever you want, Ma.”
Vera Brazile smiled. “Thank you. We do need everyone we can get. The music will make us all feel better. Music and the dance does away with all woes.”
She wanted them in town; she wanted them where she could watch and possibly sway them. Fisher was gone to the wars. It could be, at the least, the end of Jones. If that were accomplished the rest would be possible, even probable. Jones was the lodestone, the stumbling block. If she had realized that in the beginning—but that was Fisher’s fault. He had not finished his spying. He had found the woman but had neglected to learn enough about her.
It was a new starting point. Fisher was hard enough and mean enough, she thought. She composed herself for the evening. She could hear the bellicose tirade from upstairs.
“I don’t give a continental damn what Fisher says. This here dancin’ is what we got in Sunrise, you understand? This is what gives us high society doin’s. Every time we do this I send out word to the big cities. Waltzin’ in the town of Dunstan. We got to grow and you got to grow with the town, whether you wanta or not, you better believe it.”
The response was weak. The fool boy would be with them. Not that it made much difference, she thought. Nothing in the big room behind the City Hall would make any difference to her that night. All she wanted was to have Sam Jones dead and out of her way. Then the coup—and her return to eastern society.
Frank Maguire said, “He ain’t in town.” He was worn to a frazzle, his cheeks sunken, his eyes dull. “I rode myself to death gettin’ here. Had nearly no sleep. No news from Rafferty that’s any good.”
Fisher’s head throbbed with pain. “He must be on his way back. We’ll go after him.”
“Hell, he’ll be long gone ahead.”
“He stops halfway at that cabin where Babbit got stung.” Despite his pain Fisher felt the adrenaline flowing. “The bastard broke in here last night. Laid out Jason and Amby. You hear about the Olsen twin in town?”
“Same time I heard Jones had left. The fool Dunstan kid. The other two are campin’ in the hills. They’ll be ready.”
“Good. We’ve got Babbit and his three. Jason and Amby. Four others I can count on. I’m keeping the Dunstan brat out of it.”
“No loss. Can I ride your gray?” Maguire asked.
“Certainly. Take care of your horse, leave him in my stable.” Things were working fine in his head. “This will be a posse after Jones.”
“What’s the charge?” Maguire grinned.
“Beating the Olsen twin.”
“Can you make that stick?”
“Jones can’t deny it if he’s dead.”
“If the twin lives he can tell on Kid Dunstan and the others to a judge.”
“The mayor’s son?” It was a weak spot. Fisher said, “If it comes down to it the Olsen boy will have to go.”
“Want me to take care of it before we ride out?”
Fisher turned the offer over in his feverish mind. He shook his head. “Too dangerous. There’ll be people nursing him. Can’t take the chance.”
“Whatever you say.” Maguire was indifferent. “I’ll saddle up. Best get ridin’ if we’re to catch him.”
Fisher said half aloud, “And when we do, you and I will ride on to Sunrise.”
“Finish the job.” Maguire nodded as he left.
Fisher watched him, the perfect instrument he had found right here in Dunstan through chance. Maguire had been broke and hunted when Fisher was new in town, organizing his troops. Desperate for a stake Maguire had joined up. In a jiffy Fisher had recognized the lack of morality, the coldness that ran to his soul. They were a lot alike, he knew. The difference lay in Fisher’s yearning to reach a goal. Maguire needed only women and a few dollars and someone to rob or kill or maim. If there ever was a completely evil, cold killer, it was him. He would have to be eliminated when the job was done.
Perhaps Jones would do it for him before then, Fisher thought.
And what of the dancing woman? Could he master her after the job was finished? He doubted it. He would not need her if he could keep control of Cy Dunstan by convincing him that there was need for the troop and his, Fisher’s, services. Leaving Kid Dunstan and the other boys out of tonight’s expedition would help.
He did not want to give up on the woman. On the other hand, she was too positive, too single-minded, too stubborn. Too ... strong.
He made himself concentrate on the matter at hand. Sam Jones must die.
The night was growing cold. Sam shifted his position for the hundredth time, shaking his head to keep awake. He heard the sound of a four-legged animal coming up the path and rose to his feet, loosening his revolver in the holster.
“Waugh.”
There was the patter of paws and Dog came hurtling to him. He said, “Beaver, what the hell? Dog was supposed to be watchin’ over Renee.”
Beaver rode Mossy the mule to the cabin and dismounted. “Your lady’s bein’ watched over by near the whole town. She sent the hound to you for luck.”
“He’s been luck, all right. Set and let me fill you in.”
When Sam had finished Beaver said, “Hard to tell just which way to go, ain’t it?”
“Want to augur that with you. There’s no law in Dunstan. Oley Olsen’s word don’t mean doodley squat to Fisher or the mayor. And I haven’t found the rifle that matches the cartridge Dog found. All I know, it’s Fisher’s gun.”
The hound was nestled as close to Sam as he could get. He stuck out a long tongue and licked his hand.
Beaver said, “First things first. You say the two bad uns may be somewhere twixt here and Dunstan?”
“Could be.”
“Iffen they made camp there’d be a fire.”
“See what you mean.”
“May work, may not. If we got ’em and the boy that got beaten talks, mebbe it’ll stir up somethin’ in town. You say the mayor ain’t all bad.”
“It’s his son did the dirt.”
“Still and all. Nothin’ ventured nothin’ gained.”
“Okay.” Sam petted the shaggy head and tightened the cinch on Midnight and restored the bridle. They rode down to the road, Dog trotting along at the heels of their mounts.
They were halfway to Dunstan when Beaver sniffed the air. “Smoke to the right.”
They rode into a small bunch of trees and tied up. Dog was ahead of them going up the hill, nose quivering, pointing. Uncanny as usual, Sam thought, the hound always seemed to anticipate the action.
The campfire was imprudently high, visible at too great a distance for safety. Beaver and Sam separated and crept through foliage and between rocks. They came upon the pair simultaneously, Sam with his gun in hand.
&nb
sp; The two young men sat agape, their hands raised. There was no question in Sam’s mind as to their identity but he snapped, “Monty. Doodles or whatever your name is. Don’t make a move. Not even your little fingers.”
“Uh ... yessir, Mr. Jones,” stammered the one called Doodles. Monty did not lose his malignant stare as Beaver came in behind him and removed his revolvers from their holsters.
Sam said, “Take his belt, too. You may need a short gun.”
Beaver obeyed, saying, “Never had any use for these but there’s allus a day.” He went to Doodles and unbuckled a fancy, tooled belt and draped it over his arm. “Should we hogtie this pair?”
Sam could see Oley Olsen lying in the bed with his distorted features, his bruised body. The anger boiled in him. “Which one of you held the boy while the others hammered on him?” he demanded.
“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” Monty said, sullen, defiant. Doodles hunched his shoulders. Dog growled at them. Beaver stood silent, one gun in his right hand.
They had built the fire on a small table of land. Sam slowly unbuckled his belt and put it on the ground. Dog stood over it, fangs bared. Both the youths were about Sam’s size, each probably heavier. He faced them, the anger beginning to spill over.
He said, “All right. I’ll make a deal. If you two can beat up on me you can go free. Otherwise you talk and talk straight.”
Without warning Monty leaped, swinging a fist. Doodles was slower. He dove at Sam’s legs. Dog moved but Beaver said, “No! Stay down.”
Sam swayed, evading the punch. He kicked and caught Doodles alongside the head, sending him sprawling. Always careful of his hands he dug an elbow into Monty’s neck, spinning him.
Doodles had fallen into the fire. Howling, he flew staggering back to Sam. Recovering, Monty came low, head-first, knocking Sam off balance.
Doodles got in the way, swinging wild punches. For a moment Sam was buried beneath the two of them.
He kicked his way free. He caught Doodles by the nape of his neck and shoved him against Monty. They threw wild punches, managing only to hit each other. Sam grabbed Doodles by the arm and wrenched. There was a loud howl of pain and Doodles fell away.
Sam finally had to punch. He used his left hand, sending a crushing blow to Monty’s middle. As the head went down Sam’s knee came up. Monty did a back somersault and lay still.
Doodles, holding his right arm with his left hand, cried, “I give up! You broke my arm!”
Monty was unable to speak.
Beaver said calmly, “Never did believe in fair fist fightin’. You mighta got hurt, friend.”
Sam said, “They didn’t have anybody to hold me.” He was still steaming. “You, Doodles, or whatever. Tell me about it.”
“About what?” Doodles was sniveling.
“About Oley Olsen.”
“It was the Kid’s notion. We’d been drinkin’. The Kid did most of it.”
“I see. You just stood by.”
“It was the Kid,” he insisted. “Well, Monty likes to hit people. He hit me a lot when we was growin’ up.”
On the ground, recovering his senses, Monty growled, “You pusilatin’ booby, shut your damn mouth.”
“Maybe you’d like to talk?” Sam asked him.
Dog growled, showing his teeth, his muzzle close to the face of the youth on the ground. Monty flinched, showing the first sign of fear.
“Get that mutt away from me.”
Sam said, “For two pins I’d let him eat your black heart out. It’d probably poison him. Brave sons o’ bitches, you three. Real brave. If I don’t see you in jail I promise you I’ll see you in hell.”
Doodles wailed, “We didn’t kill him ... Did we?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out,” Sam told him. “Right now you two saddle up. Please make a wrong move and give me an excuse to drill you.”
He donned his belt and watched them put the saddles on their horses. He put out the fire. Dog kept hungry eyes upon their every move. Beaver emptied the cartridges from their gun belts and stuffed as many as he could into his dangling buckskin pouch. He shoved the two short guns into his belt, right and left, grumbling all the time that he preferred a rifle “when a man kin see what he’s shootin’ at.”
“You got a rifle on your saddle,” Sam said. “If these two try to run you can use it.”
“They won’t run. One’s scared Dog’ll git him, t’other’s just plain scared.”
He was telling the truth, it seemed, as they rode down the main road. Doodles still complained but his arm was not broken. Monty relapsed into sullen silence. Dog followed closely behind the two prisoners with Sam and Beaver bringing up the rear. The moon had come to full, shedding a ghostly light upon the caravan.
Beaver said, “Kinda like two Dan’ls ridin’ into the lion’s den, ain’t it?”
“Might be more like two lions ridin’ in to eat a town.”
“You’re countin’ a heap on Cy Dunstan.”
“There’s decent people everywhere,” Sam said.
“Seems like there’s more of the other kind where we’re headed.”
“True. You got any notions?”
Ahead of them Dog suddenly stopped, nose pointing, tail out straight as a clothesline. Beaver swung down from the mule. Sam called to the prisoners to rein in. Beaver put his ear to the ground.
“Hosses comin’ this way,” he said.
“Into the trees,” Sam ordered. The two obeyed. Beaver remounted. Dog followed as they pulled into a growth where they could not be seen from the main trail.
Sam said, “You two. Make a sound and you’re where you ought to be, in hell.”
Doodles inhaled sharply, biting at his lip, his grin long faded. Monty sat like a stone. Sam drew his gun and showed it. “I’m thinkin’ of Oley right now.”
All was still as a light breeze blew. The moon shone without fear or favor upon the just and the unjust.
They came, Fisher and the others. They were riding slowly, on the alert, scanning both sides of the road. They were looking for the pair now under guard and for Sam himself, he thought. It was tempting to attack, to send Monty and Doodles down to provide a diversion and to come in behind them with guns blazing.
It was not a good idea, he decided.
Better to remain behind them and try to do something in town.
Fisher turned his face toward the trees where they were hidden. Sam pushed his revolver beneath Monty’s ear. Dog growled deep in his throat and went on point again. Fisher waved his arm and the coterie moved on.
When they were out of hearing Beaver said, “That hound’s got somethin’ agin Fisher. You see it?”
Monty muttered, “Dirty damn dog.”
“What’s that mean?”
Monty shut his mouth tight.
Sam turned to Doodles. “You want to say somethin’?”
He whined, “I need the doctor for my arm. The dog was around, got under Cap’s feet.”
“He shoulda shot him then,” Monty growled. “He woulda, too.”
Sam said, “I bet he would. Shall we ride to town?”
“I need the doctor,” Doodles was wailing.
“You’ll need him worse before this is over,” Sam promised. “Vamoose!”
By now Sam knew the back ways of Dunstan almost as well as he knew those of Sunrise. He brought the little cavalcade to the rear of the Olsen residence without incident. He tapped on the door and Sven answered, rifle at the ready.
Sam said, “Whoa, it’s only me and a couple of bastards. And a friend.”
“You got them? Lemme at ’em.”
“Not the way to do it. Besides I marked ’em up some for you. How’s Oley?”
Sven relaxed noticeably. “Settin’ up. The doctor’s here. Come on in.”
In the bedroom Oley lifted one hand. “Mr. Jones.”
Sam said, “Hey, this is great.”
Cassie said, “Thanks to Doctor Fox. Thanks to the good Lord.”
Sam
said, “Anything I should know?”
The young doctor said, “They are actually holding one of Miss Brazile’s dancing lessons. However, few will attend.”
“Doc spread the word. Told ’em to keep away,” Cassie said.
“Mayor Dunstan does not own my practice,” Dr. Fox said.
“Even those who owe him wanta give the mayor the message,” Sven said.
“Kid Dunstan?” Oley’s voice was weak.
“No. Got the other two.”
“Monty and Doodles.” Oley moved, showed pain, ceased.
“Like you said. Want to plant ’em here for a spell. You all got to promise not to kill ’em.”
“I could render them unconscious for several hours,” said the doctor.
“I like your style, Doc,” Sam said. “I’d rather have ’em so that one or the other of them can squeal. We’ll truss ’em up and they can think about the bind they’re in. Can we use your barn?”
“Wish I could help.” Oley managed a grin.
Cassie said, “My goodness, you and your friend must be hungry.”
“Just for a nibble. But I got a hound out there could eat one o’ your horses and ask for more.”
“There’s plenty of meat in a butcher’s house,” Sven told him. “Can you stay, Doc?”
“I’d be obliged. One town, one medical man. Tires a fellow out.”
Sven led the way outdoors. He paused when he saw the three waiting horsemen, then went on. He lit a lantern in the stable. There was a coil of rope on a wooden peg.
Sam said, “You can watch but don’t kill.”
Sven nodded, his face hard as agate. Beaver, Dog following, ushered the pair into the barn and said, “Learned about knots from the Injuns. Lemme do this.”
Sam stood beside the twin and gently held his arm, feeling the tremor of rage in the young man, recognizing it. “Easy.” Beaver said, “You two, down on your faces.”
The prisoners stared at Sven and Sam. Now Monty showed emotion, swallowing hard. Doodles was close to tears. Neither spoke as Beaver began to do tricks with the rope. When he had finished, in no time at all, the pair were face down, knees bent behind them, a strand of the rope connecting their legs with a wipe around their throats. It they tried too hard to escape they would strangle themselves, Sam saw. He went to them, took their bandannas from them and gagged each, showing no mercy. He said, “Maybe you’ll have company later. Maybe your pardner will join you. Keep it in mind; it’ll make you feel better.”
Cemetery Jones 3 Page 14
