Cemetery Jones 4

by William R. Cox

  THEY CALLED HIM CEMETERY 'CAUSE HE PUT SO MANY MEN THERE.

  Ned Buntline made Cemetery Sam Jones the hero of one of his notorious dime novels and called him the fastest gun in the West. Now every gun-toting cowboy alive is out to prove it ain't so. Sam decides to shut Buntline up real quick before the cemeteries start overflowing.

  Of course, Sam doesn't reckon on Denver gambling brawls, New York gunfights, Indians on the warpath, and bloodthirsty outlaws after gold in the hills of Montana...

  But Cemetery Jones doesn't surprise too easy....

  One

  Samuel Hornblow Jones stood on the veranda of his new house on the outskirts of the town of Sunrise and surveyed the gala scene with mixed emotions. It was a brilliant Sunday in springtime, and all of the citizenry who were his friends had turned out to enjoy the occasion of the ‘warming’. Tables had been set up by using leftover boards stretched across wooden horses. Shaky, from El Sol Saloon, and several Mexican boys smilingly ran to and fro bearing foaming flagons of beer, there were sandwiches galore, and the air was chock-full of laughter and goodwill.

  His tall young friend Adam Burr, once a pilgrim, now a fully converted westerner, came to stand beside him, saying, “It’s a fine house, Sam, and a fine party.”

  “You can tie to that.”

  “You don’t seem to be overjoyed.” Adam had come straight from Princeton College in New Jersey and did not speak the patois of the country. “What are you thinking?”

  “Why, that I’m a lucky jasper. Looka that gramma grass turning so green, that crick gurglin’ at us. Looka your lady and Renee takin’ charge and everything like o’ that.”

  “And look at old Sam thinking he’s hog-tied, that his wandering days are over, that adventure is all in his past.”

  “You’re too damn smart sometimes,” Sam told him.

  “Sam, you’re wearing your gun in a holster under that jacket. Here you are among dozens of friends and still you cling to the old, wild habit.”

  “Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “Reckon you’re right. Old times keep runnin’ through my head.” It was part of his life, that part which had given him the hated nickname of ‘Cemetery Jones.’ He could not shake it. He had lived by the premise that a man had to kill or be killed since that day in Dodge City when the two fast gunners had sought him and he had dispatched them, thanks to the coordination of eye and hand that had been bestowed upon him at birth.

  Mayor Wagner came from inside the house to join Sam and Adam. He said, “By golly, it works.”

  “It’s supposed to work,” Sam told him. “Be in a hell of a fix if it didn’t.”

  “Just pull that li’l chain, and whoosh!”

  “More like a big fat gurgle.”

  “Does the job. First damn inside crapper—uh, toilet—in Sunrise.” Wagner shook his head. “Wisht I had a fat crick runnin’ through my prop’ty.”

  “Running water can be diverted. A dam should be built.” Adam paused, sighing. “There is so much to be done.”

  The mayor replied, “Son, we’re doin’ good. We got lights in the streets; we water them almost regular. We even got the town of Dunstan growin’ down the road, though the good Lord knows why.”

  “And here comes Charles Dingle,” said Adam. “He’s mad as hell that Spot’s taking such a long vacation.”

  Charles Dingle, gray-haired, square of mind and body, owner of the Sunrise weekly Enterprise, was approaching in tow of Renee Hart and Peggy Burr, wife of Adam. A boy wrestled with the camera equipment of the absent Spot Freygang, brash reporter and photographer.

  Sam Jones said, “Spot at least waited till a feller was dead.”

  It was true. Freygang had photographed more corpses than live men for the newspaper. Some of the former had been rendered moribund by Sam, which was a good reason why he did not want to have his picture in the paper. A look at the beautiful but forceful lady of his dreams told him that protests would be of no avail.

  Renee Hart said sweetly, fixing him with her slanted onyx eyes, “Now, Sam, it’s a most special occasion. Please.”

  As always, he was putty in her hands. The somewhat mysterious lady who played piano in El Sol, where the elite of Sunrise met to drink and relax, was the romance of his life, a fact known to one and all. Little Peggy grinned knowingly and plopped herself beside her tall husband. Renee joined her, nestling close to Sam. The hound called Dog came from nowhere and surveyed the scene with jaundiced, sad eyes and nestled in at Sam’s feet. Renee reached down to stroke one of the overlong velvet ears of the animal and said, “I do wish you’d give him a real name.”

  “Dog he is and Dog he answers to. I don’t like this picture takin’, darlin’.”

  “Only the limited circulation of the Enterprise gives me the strength to endure it,” she told him. She, too, had reason for anonymity. Not so long ago she had been embroiled in a plot to assassinate her.

  Dingle said in his fussy manner, “Mayor Wagner, if you would stand a step lower than the others. That Freygang. I never was expert at taking pictures of more than one person at a time.”

  Good nature reigned. Dingle set off his flash. The group dispersed to return to the festivities.

  Dingle said, “How about one of you and the dog?”

  Sam said resignedly, “Shoot away. Damn flash burns my eyes.”

  Dingle folded the tripod and stored away his plate. He approached Sam, notebook in hand.

  “A few questions.”

  “Just so you don’t use that ‘Cemetery Jones’ name.”

  “But people like to hear—”

  “You want trouble with me?”

  Dingle looked into Sam’s eyes. He coughed. “Uh, no, Mr. Jones. I want as little trouble as possible. I am trying to run a freethinking, liberal-minded paper here in this beautiful town of Sunrise, and - “

  “You keep on thinkin’ nice and liberal,” Sam told him. “Just remember it’s Samuel Hornblow Jones. No more, no less.”

  “Yes, sir. Now, as a leading citizen, do you have an opinion about the government in Washington?”

  “Nope.”

  “This territory?”

  “Gov’ment don’t bother me, I obey the law. I don’t bother it.”

  “Well, about the new church?”

  “Good thing.”

  “Uh, yes. Now, what about our rival down the road, the town of Dunstan?”

  “What about it?” Sam was becoming annoyed.

  “You were down there recently. What is your opinion of its status as of now?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  Mayor Wagner approached. “A stinkin’ rat hole. We all know that. Ha!”

  Dingle said frostily, “I didn’t ask you.”

  Adam Burr interposed smoothly, “I think this is enough, gentlemen. I think Sam wants to join the fun, if you don’t mind.”

  Dingle said, “Certainly. I do thank you for posin’. That damn Freygang ...”

  “He’ll be home any day,” said Adam, taking Sam’s elbow and aiming toward the merrymakers. “Why don’t you have a couple of beers and cool off?”

  “It’d take whiskey,” Dingle told him. “Harrumph.”

  “Just allow us to have some fun,” said Adam. “Look there, Sam. A newcomer to your party.”

  A rider had come onto the scene. He was dressed in black and white from sombrero to shiny boots. He swung down from his horse and strode to a spot where he stood alone against the background of grass and the brook and the trees along the fringe of Sam’s place. He had a hooked nose and a wide mouth and staring dark eyes.

  Sam blinked away the last of the shooting stars from the flash of the camera. “Well, now, if it ain’t Jim Jimson. Long time, Jim.”

  “Dodge City.”

  �
�Yeah. Light and have a beer.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He was tall. He wore his gun low and walked with a rolling gait. Shaky brought him a foaming beer. They sat at the table with Renee and Peggy and Adam and Mr. and Mrs. Wagner. Jim Jimson acknowledged the introductions, unsmiling, depositing his hat on the grass.

  “Ridin’ through?” Sam asked.

  “Hope to. Nice place you got here.”

  “We like it.” Jimson was holding something tight inside himself. The sharp eyes missed nothing; his hands moved restlessly, strangely white and soft for a rider.

  Mayor Wagner asked, “You lookin’ for work? This is a great town to settle down.”

  “Not looking thanks,” said Jimson.

  Shaky stopped by and asked, “Take care of your hoss?”

  “Watered him in town, thanks.”

  Sam moved his legs from under the table, loosened his jacket. “You got a reason for stoppin’ by, Jim?”

  “I was rememberin’. Dodge. Abilene. The shootin’.”

  “You were mighty fast in those days.” Sam smiled.

  “Still am. Wouldn’t be here, neither of us, if we wasn’t.”

  “I mind you did a little shootin’ when you were marshal of Kanawka. It was a hot spot.”

  “Nobody hears about it no more. Dead when the rails didn’t come through.”

  “That’s what we’re looking forward to,” said Mayor Wagner. “A railhead.”

  “That will come in good time,” said Renee.

  Shaky poised a pitcher over their heads. “Last o’ the suds. Stranger?”

  “No, thanks.” Jimson had barely touched his beer.

  Shaky filled the glasses of the others. “See the war cloud? Party’s about over, folks.”

  The little cloud was black, scudding across the horizon above the mountaintops. Sunrise was on the high plain, surrounded by towering peaks; the weather in spring was as indecisive as a chameleon on Scotch plaid.

  There was a general stir among the guests. The women, who wore afternoon finery, glanced upward, hustled. Preacher Lomax, with Missy Wagner on one arm and Mama Wagner on the other, stopped by to pick up Mayor Wagner. Those who had arrived in various styled vehicles tightened up bridles or cinches. All gave fleeting but sincere good wishes to Sam, who stood unsmiling but grateful as they passed.

  Jimson made no move to depart. Soon only Renee was left. Shaky and his helpers were cleaning up the disorder as swiftly as they could.

  Renee said, “I must go home and change. Nice to have met you, Mr. Jimson.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” He arose and bowed.

  “See you later, Sam.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and departed with the Burrs.

  Sam sipped the beer. It was flat; he made a face. “You want to see me about somethin’, Jim?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s goin’ to rain.”

  “This won’t keep, Sam. Had some trouble over in Kanawka.”

  “Like I say, hot town.”

  “It would’ve been okay. They thought I was the fastest. Rails or no rails, I coulda hung on.”

  “So?”

  “Well, they had a turkey shoot. I cleaned ’em.”

  “You were always good, Jim.”

  “Then Harry Hatt came in.”

  “Bad hombre, Harry.”

  “I outdrew him. He’s on Boot Hill. So now they’re braggin’ I’m the fastest gun in the West. Faster’n Wild Bill Hickok.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “It made the town proud. Their marshal the fastest gun.”

  “Not many towns left like that.”

  “Not many jobs for a fast gun. Times are a’changin’.”

  “Did you try Dunstan down the road?”

  “I like it in Kanawka. Got me a woman owns a dress shop. She ain’t about to move to Dunstan even if they wanted me.”

  “You’ve got a problem there, Jim.”

  Shaky had the wagon loaded, the boy helpers aboard. The black cloud was hanging, threatening. Sam waved, and now he and Jim Jimson were alone. The light was still good, reflecting off the shining side of the mountains to the west prior to making its farewell for the night.

  “You always been a square shooter, Sam. Always respected you.”

  “I appreciate.” Something was coming, and he had been there too many times before. He moved again, getting his feet planted.

  Jimson said, “I know you’re wearin’ that .38 under your arm, Sam.”

  “Matter of habit.”

  “You shouldn’t of done it, Sam.”

  “Like I say, matter of habit.”

  “I mean brag on it. I know you’re fast, maybe faster’n me.” A bead of sweat appeared on his brow. “Lot o’ damn fools believe anything they see printed on paper.”

  “What paper, Jim?”

  “You know damn well what paper.”

  The hound, which had been lying nearby, raised its head and growled deep in its throat. Neither man moved. The sun took a little dip and the cloud moved to its edge.

  Sam sighed. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about, Jim. I’m real damn sorry about this.”

  He kicked at the table as Jimson’s hand went down to the butt of his gun. His draw was pure reflex. He shot Jimson between the eyes.

  He said, “Damn. He wasn’t a bad feller, Dog.”

  He walked around the table, set it back on its feet. He hated to look at the corpse. The old song came to him and he sang it quietly to Dog. “A man can shoot another man . . . and still be on the level . . . But woe and shame will come to him . . . who sells out to the devil.”

  “It don’t apply,” he complained. “Jim, he didn’t sell out. He had a wrong notion and it killed him.”

  Jimson’s gun was out of the holster, proving that he had indeed been quick. Sam picked it up. It was a single-action Army Colt, .45-caliber, seven-and-a-half-inch blue barrel, casehardened, with walnut grip. “Mighty heavy,” Sam told Dog. “Now, about the paper. What’s this?”

  It had fallen out of Jimson’s coat pocket. It was a copy of Dime Novels, cheap paper, stained by the sweat of the dead man. The cover was in garish colors. It depicted a tall, wide-shouldered man dressed in fringed buckskin but wearing riding boots. He wore his hair to his shoulders. His hat was flat-brimmed, and in its sweatband was a feather. In his hands were two badly depicted revolvers.

  The other two figures in the drawing were faceless, poorly conceived figures, both in the process of falling. Each held a gun. There was a caption under the drawing.

  “He drew his pistols in the twinkling of an eye, and the villains bit the dust. CEMETERY JONES had again proved he is the fastest gun in the West.”

  Sam said, “That’s the damn devil.” He had seen these trashy ten-cent magazines before. They had dealt with Buffalo Bill Cody, with Wild Bill Hickok, with Texas Jack Omahundro. They were taking the place of the Little Blue Books which had educated Sam by printing the classics, which so many cowboys had acquired with Bull Durham tobacco and devoured by campfires up and down the trails. There was no truth in them. He looked for the author.

  The name was Ned Buntline.

  “He’s the bloody liar who got Bill Cody to be an actor,” Sam said. The hound, sensing Sam’s anger, growled deep in its throat. “That man should have his pen taken away.”

  Drops of rain spattered. Sam rearranged the table so that it covered the body of Jim Jimson, slain by the printed word. George Spade, carpenter and undertaker, who, with the aid of the handyman-preacher Clayton Lomax, had built Sam’s house, would be by to pick up the lumber used for the tables. By force of habit Sam went to the stable to care for his horse, Brownie, the chestnut that had been given him by Renee. He had seldom owned a horse since leaving the ranges; now he rather liked owning his own mount. He poured oats, put down straw, all mechanical moves, thinking of Jimson and how senseless his death had been, and of Ned Buntline, whoever in hell he was, and growing angrier by the minute. Dog followed his every
move, baring his fangs from time to time, always in tune with his beloved owner.

  They went into the house—together. Sam put the offending magazine on a table in the parlor. The place still smelled of fresh wood. It was of a design that Renee had found in one of her numerous publications from the East, complete with an attic and a brick-lined cellar. There was a dining room, two bedrooms, a tack room off the spacious kitchen. It was furnished with tables, chairs, couches, utensils, which she had caused to be sent in by express.

  There were Navajo rugs on the knotty pine walls and Brussels carpets on the hardwood floors. There were prints of western scenes and a photograph of Sunrise blown up by Spot Freygang, a breathtaking panorama. There was the marvel of its time, an indoor bathroom complete with a lion-clawed tub and a toilet fed by piping from the creek, minor over the sink, oilcloth on the floor.

  It had cost him more than he felt he could afford, but Renee had blithely ignored his complaints and gone ahead. He was, she said, entitled to the best, and the best he should have. He had long since realized that what Renee thought was good for him would be provided, one way or another. He went to the dining room and poured himself a stiff drink of whiskey from a cut-glass decanter on the sideboard. It did not relieve his mind nor assuage his emotions. He poured another and returned to the offending thin pulp-paper magazine. Nobody even distantly resembled the figure on the cover, especially Samuel Hornblow Jones, who was slim, of medium height, and brown-haired. He had never worn buckskins, and if he had, he would certainly not have worn them with cowboy boots. The feather in the ridiculous hat was the last straw. He dropped the thing as though it were red-hot.

  He heard the sound of George Spade’s wagon coming and went onto the veranda. The brief shower had gone with the black cloud and twilight had settled in. He went with George to the table and uncovered the body.

  The undertaker said, “Sam, you’re goin’ to miss one of them head shots someday and that’ll be it.”

  “That’s what I had to do. Name’s Jim Jimson. I’ll pay the funeral cost.”

  “It can be a housewarmin’ present. All he’ll get is six feet of Boot Hill.”

  They went about piling the boards and wooden horses onto the wagon. When they had finished they picked up the corpse and placed it near the tailgate and covered it with the horse blanket George rode on while driving.