Cemetery Jones 3

by William R. Cox

  Monty jerked on their bonds so that he knocked Doodles off balance. “The hell with it,” he growled. “Shut your fool mouth. The hell with the whole damn business.”

  “Oley Olsen is badly hurt,” Sam said. “What are you going to do about these two? And your son?”

  Mrs. Dunstan wailed, “They’re lyin’. Danny wouldn’t do any such thing.”

  “He did! He did too!” Doodles had fallen completely apart. His eyes were red, his face puffed, his shoulder hunched to relieve the pain in his arms. “If I hadn’t been drinkin’ I wouldn’t of been in on it. It was the Kid and Monty drug me.”

  The small assemblage was drifting apart. The elderly people huddled together, staring accusingly at the Dunstans. The dancing teacher, oddly, had stationed herself beside the bandstand. The musicians were frozen into place, small, secret grins on their faces.

  Monty thrust his unshaven dark jaw forward and demanded, “What right’s this stranger got to arrest me? I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. The Kid ain’t here to say anything. This here ain’t legal, you hear me?”

  Sam said, “Mayor Dunstan, you put the law in the hands of Captain Fisher. These jaspers worked under him. I don’t see him around to take charge.”

  Dunstan said, “I’m the law around here. If what you say is the truth I’ll attend to this pair.”

  “And your son?”

  “My baby didn’t do anything wrong.” Mrs. Dunstan was at it again. “I don’t care what anybody says.”

  “I got to hear both sides of this.” Dunstan was now blustering.

  Sven Olsen spoke up. “Oley said it was the Kid and these two. He said it the minute he woke up. They near killed him.”

  The hound made a sound in its throat. Sam suddenly wanted out of the bickering, out of the hall. His sixth sense was operating, far from the first time. The mayor was at a loss; it was best to leave the prisoners with him for the time being.

  “I’ll take care of these two. I’ll talk with my son.” Dunstan was shaken to his fancy dancing boots.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Sam said. He turned toward the door, taking Sven’s elbow in his left hand. There was something wrong.

  Kid Dunstan suddenly reappeared in the frame of the back door. He had a Winchester in his hands. His voice was a high soprano, fraught with unreasoning fear. “You let them two loose. You just cut them ropes. You hear me? I’ll shoot you where you stand, Jones!”

  Mrs. Dunstan screeched, “Danny, my boy,” and ran into the line of fire.

  The mayor roared, “Put that gun down you damn fool idiot!”

  Kid Dunstan yelled, “Cap’s a-comin’!” His father seized the rifle from him.

  Sam said, “Outside.”

  Dog followed on his heels. Sven came along. They were in the moonlight in seconds. They heard Beaver say, “Comin’ in. A heap of ’em.”

  They stood with their backs to the wall as Fisher and his men rode into their vision. Inside the hall there was confusion. They could hear the mayor hollering, his wife beseeching. Out of the corner of his eye, as he stood beside the open door, Sam saw the dancing woman, who had been uncharacteristically silent, edge behind the bandstand out of sight.

  Fisher’s voice came clear and demanding from the shadow of the trees. “Sam Jones, you are under arrest.”

  “Better check with your boss,” Sam called. He could not see the man.

  “You’re accused of assaulting Oley Olsen.” Fisher became sonorous, righteous. “You will remain in custody until this is considered.”

  “Waugh! The man’s pure outa his head,” Beaver said. He was in the shadow of a big tree a dozen yards from where Sam, the dog, and Sven were standing. The hound now was growling in a manner Sam had not heard before, fierce as a mountain lion. He said, “Quiet, Dog, quiet.” Still the growling went on, teeth bared, hair bristling.

  Fisher said, “Babbit, you and your men secure the accused.”

  Babbit’s loud voice replied, “Not me, Cap. Get his guns afore anybody tries him.”

  Inside the hall Mayor Dunstan was bawling at his son and the two whose hands were still tied.

  Sam said to Sven, “Go in there and keep the story straight. Dunstan believes it now. Watch out for the dancin’ woman, there’s somethin’ queer about her tonight.”

  The twin obeyed. Fisher was still trying to get someone to arrest Sam. Under the tree Beaver had a revolver in each hand. Dog was still making the ferocious sound in his throat. Sam made a fast decision. Sooner or later the legality of the situation would be forgotten and hot lead would fly in his direction. He made a quick jump and ran to where Beaver was covering him. Dog was with him every inch of the way.

  Beaver said, “You mought be a bit off your head but you do move good. I’ll be hereabouts.” He was gone again. Even the bright moonlight could not reveal his going.

  Fisher called again in his best martial fashion. “Surrender or take the consequences.”

  There was a reason they had not attempted to shoot him down, Sam thought. “You know who beat Oley Olsen,” he called, stalling for time. “Your boys know. Decent people know. The mayor knows. Your number’s about up, ain’t it, Fisher?”

  Before there could be a reply the hound whirled, the tone of his growl becoming a recognizable warning. Sam wheeled around in the elongated slender shadow of the tree and fired his gun at a figure made silvery white by the moon. Maguire cried out and fell forward on his face.

  “Still bushwhackin’, eh, Fisher?” Sam made his tone as taunting as possible. “Why don’t you come get me alone? I’ll give you the chance. Call off your men. Try me.” He took a wild shot. “Or is shootin’ women your way?”

  Fisher gave another order. “Dismount, men. Attack!”

  From the north came Beaver’s voice, “Bad medicine, pardner. The scum’s a-comin’.”

  Now he heard marching feet. Beaver came closer and called, “Some son stirred up the rubbish. They got guns.”

  It was time to cut and run. Fisher’s men were climbing down from their horses. A crowd of low-lives from the rough part of Dunstan was gathering behind them. Sam had seen mobs at work before; they were of all human action the most terrifying.

  There were people in the hall who would be endangered. The mayor himself, his son, and two confederates could be massacred to suit Fisher’s ends.

  Counting on confusion in the ranks of Fisher’s men plus the advance of the mob from the low part of town he said, “Come with me Dog. We’ll go to the dance.” Together he and the animal dashed back across the space which was moonlit as bright as day. Shots sounded. Lead whistled on the clear night air.

  Sam and Dog lunged unhit through the door and into the auditorium. The scene was one of confusion. The middle-aged people were scurrying about looking for shelter where there was little or none. Doodles and Monty lay on the floor against the far wall. Mama Dunstan held onto her son, protecting him. Sven stood guard upon them all. Cy Dunstan, irresolute, for once without words, had his son’s rifle in his hands. Vera Brazile peeked from behind the bandstand. The musicians sat as if entranced by the proceedings. The mayor said numbly, “I heard shots.”

  “You did. I had to kill a man,” Sam told him. “Before it’s over you may have to do likewise. Your man Fisher is, seems to me, takin’ over.”

  Dunstan shook his head as if to brush off cobwebs. “What’s that? What did you say there?”

  “Listen.” Sam gestured with his Colt. “He’s plumb oratin’.”

  Dunstan went to the door. Fisher was saying in his dictatorial manner, “You want Cemetery Jones. He’s in that hall. The mayor and his son are there. What did they ever do for you? It’s time for a change, friends. You can come to me with your problems. I do not hold mortgages upon you ...”

  Dunstan said, “The sumbitch!”

  Sam asked, “Where’s the dancin’ lady?”

  “Damn if I know.”

  “I’m here.” She came forth dramatically, head high, carrying Fisher’s rifle in her tiny h
ands. Sam had not before fully realized how small she was. She had the bearing of ... an actress, he thought. He had seen them strut the stage in Dodge City, in his travels eastward. There was something unreal about her.

  Dunstan said, “Fisher, the bastid.”

  “He’s got half the town out there,” Sam told them. “I’ve got a friend out there. One friend. And there’s us. How do you like the odds?”

  “I ain’t got enough ammunition to hold off no mob,” said Dunstan. He was still at a loss, Sam saw.

  “Wouldn’t do us much good to have bullets against that many, now, would it?” he asked.

  Vera Brazile’s brows contracted. She stared at Sam. He saw through the veil then, saw hatred. The cog that had been missing in the machinery of his mind slowly moved into place.

  He took two steps and said to her, “This will do better in the hands of somebody else.” He took the rifle from her, surprised at her strength as she fruitlessly resisted. He handed it to Sven.

  The twin broke it open. He said, “Hell, it ain’t loaded.”

  “Let me see it.” Sam turned the exposed hammer in the light of the moon through the window. The nick was plain to be seen. The burning anger gripped him once more. He turned savagely upon the woman. “Is this your property, lady?”

  “It ... it belongs to Captain Fisher,” she said. “Mayor Dunstan can attest to that.”

  “That’s right.” Dunstan remembered what Sam had told him. “That the gun you’re lookin’ for?”

  “The same. I’ll be seein’ your man Fisher.”

  “Not my man no more,” Dunstan said. “No goddam puke like him.”

  “I hope we live to tell him about it.” Sam had to live now. He had to face Fisher. Whatever else happened he had to get to the man for whom he had been searching.

  He heard the voice again, “Surround the building. If they don’t send out Cemetery Jones we shall go in and take him!”

  Sam said crisply to Sven, “Keep one eye on that woman.”

  “The dancin’ lady?”

  “The same,” Sam said. “Line her up with those other useless bodies against that wall.”

  Sven hesitated, then showed his gun to Vera Brazile. Her teeth flashed in a grimace at Sam, then she went silently to where Mrs. Dunstan huddled with the still bound pair of youths, her cowering son, and the innocent people.

  Pompey came close to Sam and asked, “Miz Brazile, she one of the bads?”

  “You can believe it.” He would attend to her later. He did not know how he would do it but it had to be done, he knew. If he lived, that was, if any of them lived. He broke a pane of glass and peered out into the moonlight.

  The mob had come in. They were like crawling dark animals as they came, carrying guns, knives, hatchets, clubs, whatever weapons they could command. They were as dangerous as wild animals, he knew. They were mindless, aching to do damage to make up for real or fancied wrongs. Many of them were drunk, or loaded with laudanum or opium. The danger could not be exaggerated.

  He heard Fisher exultantly exhorting them. There was no way to stand against the numbers if they charged. A bullet whanged through the window close to his head. He fired blindly, rapidly. He heard cries that told him he had found targets. The air went out of the initial attack.

  He said to Dunstan, “This won’t do.” Outside there were a couple more reports of a short gun he surmised was in the hands of Beaver. There were further yells from the mob. “Too many of ’em.”

  Dunstan was stunned, his voice an octave below normal. “Did I hear you say Vera’s with ’em?”

  “Is she close with Fisher? She had his rifle.”

  Dunstan said, “I hired him. Hired her, so to speak. Now my town is tryin’ to kill me.

  “Looks that way.” Sam was reloading. He saw movement, emptied the six-shooter. “Not a good place to die.”

  “The town I built.”

  Sam said, “That gun of Fisher’s. It’s a .44. I got plenty ammunition for a .44 bore.”

  A fusillade burst through the window that Sven was watching, splattering harmlessly. The twin returned the fire.

  Dunstan said, “Gimme that damn gun.” His voice rose to its normal volume. “I ain’t goin’ to die without a fight.”

  Sam said, “Didn’t think you would, come down to it.” He was again reloading, taking peeks at the situation. The moonlight held and he found a target, Babbit. The blusterer went down. There were shouts, shots, a few more groans. Fisher called for order, his voice fierce, demanding. The movement as of a pack of rodents slowed, melted into the shadows.

  Now there was confusion indoors, at the back of the hall, demanding Sam’s attention. The action was at Sven’s post. His voice sounded, “I’ll shoot!”

  In the uncertain, diffused moonlight Sam saw bodies in action. Mama Dunstan cried out in anguish.

  Then they were making for the door, Kid Dunstan, Doodles, Monty. In among them was Vera Brazile.

  “Hold it,” Sam called to Sven. Dog barked and stopped short at the heels of the fleeing group. Mayor Dunstan shouted to no avail.

  Sam was at the window. He could find no targets. There was no one in sight. A fusillade of shots came from the shadows.

  The escaping group went down like ninepins. They fell in a heap. As he watched, the dancing woman wriggled beneath the others, and he knew she had somehow evaded death.

  The howling anger surfaced again in Sam. Dunstan was holding his screaming wife as she struggled to go to her son.

  Without thought Sam slammed open the door and charged into the open.

  There were no targets. The mob had seemingly evaporated. Astonishingly, Adam Burr’s voice shouted, “Sam!”

  Beaver echoed with a “Waugh. We got the devils!”

  Into Sam’s line of vision came the canvas-topped wagon belonging to Doc Bader. It was like a dream.

  Fisher walked stiffly into the open as Sam holstered his gun. The man was white faced, grim.

  He said, “Jones, what about it?”

  “Comes down to us,” Sam told him. “Take your shot.”

  Fisher’s hand darted. He was fast.

  Sam took a dancing step and drew. He shot Fisher neatly between the eyes. Fisher got off his shot. Behind him Sam heard a high, wailing cry. He turned to see Vera Brazile on her feet.

  She took two steps, then flung her arms wide. Fisher’s wild bullet had struck beneath her left breast. She staggered, fell to one knee. She coughed blood, mumbled a name Sam could not distinguish and died.

  Adam, the new preacher, Beaver, Peggy and Renee were coming toward him. Behind them he caught a glimpse of Oliver Dixon and other citizens of Dunstan bearing arms.

  Beaver said, “Waugh! The good people rose up.”

  Tom Vaughn and two cowboys from the Dunstan ranch rode into view. Sam waved at him and said, “You better take charge. There’s plenty to set straight.”

  Then Renee was in his arms. The killing was ended.

  They were in the hall where the dancing was now a memory. Bodies of the dead had been laid out in a row. Dr. Fox had done his best with the wounded.

  Cy Dunstan said, “My son, he’ll live. He may be a cripple, but he’ll live. Jones, I seen what you did with Fisher. You want the job of marshal here you got it.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Renee called out, “Sam!” She was standing over the body of Vera Brazile. “What did you say was her name?”

  He told her. She shook her head, shocked. “Her name is Katherine Jane Winslow. She’s from New York City.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Only from pictures in the newspapers and magazines. She was a ballet dancer. Wealthy. Then she was ...” Her lips closed. She said no more, turning away.

  “What’s that?” demanded Dunstan. “That’s the damnedest thing. What’s it all about?”

  Sam spoke, thinking fast, staving him off. “She and Fisher were a team, you see? They were goin’ to take over your town one way or another.”

  “The hel
l you say. Were they the ones tryin’ to kill you and your lady?”

  “Fisher.” Sam had to manufacture a story for Renee’s sake. “I reckon he wanted to get me for some reason. Folks generally do. Missed me, botched the job, and I figured he was aimin’ for her.” It was getting difficult. “We’ll never know for sure, will we?”

  “The dead won’t tell.” Dunstan seemed satisfied for that moment at least.

  Renee stood silent. The door to her past, open for a second, was closed again.

  Dog was standing over Fisher’s body, still growling. Sven Olsen said, “He ain’t forgot the kick he got from Cap.”

  The musicians were together, waiting. Sam went to them and said, “It’s all over but the burying. Will you take the stage to Sunrise for me?”

  “What you wants, you get,” Pompey told him. “Can we go home, then?”

  “I’ll pay your way to New Orleans.”

  “Anything you say, man from Sunrise.”

  Sam gathered his coterie of friends. “We got to see Oley and his gal.”

  As they were leaving he saw Tom Vaughn and three cowboys taking charge and knew that order would be restored and the odds and ends cared for. He waved as he departed the scene of music, dancing, and death.

  Oley Olsen was sitting up. Cassie was holding his hand. When all had been introduced the girl said to Sam, “You say that tall man is a real, honest to goodness preacher?”

  “He is.”

  Oley said, “We could use him.”

  Lomax came from the kitchen, swallowing cold meat. Sam said, “Seems like they need you to do a job.”

  Sven said, “Ma and Pa can’t stop ’em from marryin’ now. We owe you a heap, Sam.”

  “Nobody owes me anything,” Sam said. “The town was there when it was needed. You still got mortgages but I got an idea old Cy won’t be so tough from now on.”

  So the war in Dunstan was ended. The nicked cartridge would go into Sam’s tack. It would never be proven who fired the shot at Renee. No one cared.

  Philip Barnes Merrivale and his uncle sat in the opulent library again. New York bustled outside. There was another bottle of fine wine.