They went into the house and George asked, “What was his game?”
Sam indicated the magazine on the table as he poured the drinks. “That’s what did it.”
“That junk?” George sniffed. “Kids and dummies read that stuff.”
“You’d be surprised how many dummies there are in Kanawka,” Sam told him. “Poor old Jim believed I put the story out.”
“He didn’t know you very good.”
“He scarce knew me at all.” Jimson had been on hand in Dodge when it was beginning. Sam had seen him maybe twice since. He could not remember offhand where.
George said, “Well, I gotta go. I’ll stop off at the marshal’s. See you later.”
“Yeah.” He was trying to remember where he had last seen Jimson. In his time he had been up and down the frontier and several times east of the Rockies. He had been, briefly, a cowboy. He had been a gambler tutored by Luke Short, the little king of the tables. He had been a mine owner here, had sold the mine for thirty thousand dollars. He had been, against his will, lawman in Sunrise for a small time. Now he had Renee Hart, this house, a horse, a small bank account, and a huge pile of resentment against one Ned Buntline. He took Jimson’s Colt into the tack room and methodically cleaned it, emptying the remaining cylinders. At that moment he remembered where he had last seen the owner. It was in El Paso, and there had been a card game and Jimson had won a lot of money and someone had suggested that he was cheating and Jimson had killed the man with a very pretty fast draw. It had been an incident of no large consequence in that time and place. Sam had seen too many such incidents in the early days. He cleaned his own S&W .38 and reloaded the fifth cylinder, letting the hammer down on an empty chamber, as did all careful gun carriers. He thought a moment, then replaced the .38 in the shoulder holster. It was against the rules to carry a gun in El Sol, but in light of what had happened, he felt it permissible so long as it was out of sight.
He said to Dog, “Gettin’ scary in my old age, friend.” He went back to the sideboard and poured another drink and went on, “I better get the hell outa here or I’ll be drunk as a skunk.”
He went into the kitchen and poured warm water from the kettle on the back of the stove and washed hands and face. He picked up Jimson’s gun and put it in his belt and went to the barn and saddled Brownie. He could have walked to town in fifteen minutes, but the old cowboy habit persisted: “Never walk when you can ride.” It accounted for the slight bow to his long legs.
The town was as quiet as he had ever seen it. It was dark; the street lamps of which Sunrise was so proud cast eerie shadows. Sam tied up and went into the saloon. He knew instantly that George Spade had been there before him. Everyone tried too hard not to stare. Marshal Donovan was sitting at a table with Renee and owner Casey Robinson.
Mayor Wagner and Ted Tillus of NTN Ranch sat together. Shaky stood with his palsied hands on the bar. Dog followed at Sam’s heels.
He said, “Marshal, here’s Jimson’s gun. It was in his hand when he went down.”
“He must’ve been mighty fast.” The marshal had no further comment.
“He was fast enough,” Sam said, going to Renee’s table.
“You beat him.” The marshal was satisfied. “You got any notion what was on his mind?”
Sam put the pulp magazine on the table. Everyone craned to stare at it; a murmur ran through the barroom.
Renee said, “How perfectly horrid.”
“It got one man killed,” said Sam. “Now what?”
“They’ll be comin’ after you,” said Donovan. “Damn.”
“Every cockeyed jackass who thinks he’s good,” said Ted Tillus. “It happened to Hickok, Earp, all of ’em.”
“Goes on and on, then wears out,” agreed Casey Robinson. “Gun rule is off for you in this joint, Sam.”
“Glad to hear it.” Sam tapped his .38 in its concealed shoulder holster. “I wish I had whoever told that story to this Buntline by the neck.”
Charles Dingle approached, notebook in hand. “Ned Buntline has been perpetrating these canards for years. I’ll have to photograph the corpus as usual, Sam. Have you anything to say about the . . . er . . . unfortunate incident?”
“The man tried to kill me. I killed him,” said Sam.
Renee put her hand on his knee. She looked at Dingle and said, “Please.”
Dingle hesitated for a second, then said, “Yes, ma’am,” and left them.
Shaky came with a tray of sandwiches, saying, “Left-overs, but you might be hungry, Sam.”
He was empty, he realized. Food could not entirely fill the void, but it might help. He had drunk too much whiskey, he thought. A second barkeep named Isham Heater brought beer. Isham was new, a dark-skinned pilgrim from somewhere abroad, a country only Renee had heard of. He said in a very low voice, “I sorry you had to do it, Mr. Jones.”
“Thanks, Isham.” Besides Renee, he seemed the only person in town who realized what it took out of him. The West was far from tamed, he thought.
He did not consider himself a man of violence. He avoided arguments. He had never drawn a gun excepting in self-defense. He questioned himself on each and every occasion—did he have to kill, could he have wounded his attacker? Would they come back again and again if he did so? How could he know for sure?
Jimson had been present in Dodge City when the cowboys, fresh off the trail and full of rotgut whiskey, had come at him. Jimson knew how he had acquired the hated nickname ‘Cemetery,’ yet he had tried to glorify himself by killing . . . the reputation of Sam Jones? He could never reconcile his place in the lore of the frontier with his own estimation of self.
Betsy and Rita, the two dance hall girls, came to the table and said, “Please, Renee, we gotta make a dollar,” and Renee put her hand on Sam’s shoulder a moment, then went to the piano so that the girls might pick up a few dollars cavorting with the customers. They were good, clean girls who would not go upstairs but might be willing to go elsewhere. Casey Robinson ran the cleanest establishment in the territory, Sam thought.
Renee’s repertoire ran from Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms to the new jazz brought to Sunrise by the brief visit of three black musicians from New Orleans. She often played Mozart with a swing that had captured the heart of westerners. She now played ‘Buffalo Gals’ in dance rhythm to encourage the men to seek the two girls.
Renee was the beautiful dark woman of Sam’s present and, he hoped, future life. She had always evaded the subject of marriage—and so had he, admittedly.
Neither was certain of the future, to tell the truth, he as long as the ‘Cemetery Jones’ hung over him, and she, the shadow of her previous life.
Renee was now playing a number the blacks had called “the blues,” which wailed of their plight, yet had a humorous connotation easily recognized. The girls switched partners and laid their cheeks on the shoulders of the men and probably wondered why they were here, wishing for home and baby. The blues could hit you hard, Sam thought, but was good for the soul, made people stop and think.
Casey Robinson said, “A penny for your thoughts, Sam.”
He stared. “Ain’t worth it.”
“You were far away from here.”
“The music.”
“Yeah. It’s truly great,” said Casey. “I’m right proud, y’know. This place, the hotel, they run themselves with the good help I got. Lucky, that’s me.”
“Right,” said Sam.
“Stage’s been in for an hour. Folks don’t leave here to just go and watch it arrive. They like it in here.”
“It’s a fine place, Casey.”
“You shouldn’t fret. That Jimson, he deserved what he got. Everybody knows it, Sam.”
“Thanks.” Robinson was being kind. It was a hard thing that people felt they had to be kind to him.
“You got a fine house there.”
“People seem to think so. Renee did it all. What would we do without her?”
“I’d be driftin’ on,” said Sam truthfully
.
“This joint wouldn’t half be what it is.” Robinson had been a big-time gambler, once partnered with Luke Short. He had put his winnings away, moved to Sunrise when Abe Solomon had opened his bank and given him advice. “Settle down and buy land while it’s cheap, no? People will come.” At first there had been a roulette wheel, a faro table, and poker games. Now there were only the poker games among the residents and an occasional high-stakes contest in the back room. “Wyatt Earp couldn’t believe it. Said you have to have the gamblin’.”
“Not if you have the county drinkin’ at your prices,” Sam told him. He managed a grin and added, “You do serve the best beer and booze, Casey. You’re entitled to do good.”
Renee stopped playing and returned to the table. Idly, she picked up the offending magazine. She looked at the cover illustration and laughed deep in her throat. “It’s so bad that it’s funny, don’t you see? Utterly ridiculous.”
“If it was you, it wouldn’t be that funny,” said Sam.
“I agree. Still, it is comical, the absolutely silly garments. The plume.” She was trying to turn him off, he knew, trying to bring him out of his mood. It didn’t work so well at this moment.
There was a whoop and a cry, “The Prodigal Son hath returned.”
Facing the door as always, Sam took in the vision with his mouth open. It was then he grinned from ear to ear.
Renee said, “Solomon in all his glory was not attired as this.”
Albert J. Freygang, known as “Spot,” stood before them. On his head was a flat derby hat, pearl gray. On his slight form was a long checkered coat. Beneath it was a flowered vest hideous to the eye. The pants to match the coat were wide at the hips and skinny at the tops of the patent leather pointy boots. The shirt was not quite pink, as though it were trying to be purple.
“Boss,” he cried to Charles Dingle, “have I got stories for you! I’m late. I admit it. But I been all the way across this great country to New York City.”
“Whoops! Want a dance, dearie?” shouted a cowboy.
Spot swaggered to the bar, produced a gold piece, and said, “Drinks are on me, friends.”
Charles Dingle said, “By God, he’s gone mad.”
“Hit the jackpot,” said the reporter. “Started in Denver. Couldn’t trace my folks nohow.” He gulped at the beer Shaky placed before him. His parents had deserted him when he was a baby, and kindly people in Denver had raised him, sent him to school, got him started as a boy with the Mountain News. He had drifted to Sunrise when Dingle started the Enterprise, bringing the heavy camera equipment with him. He went on, “Met a man there. Fantastic feller. Got into a poker game. Remembered everything Sam here taught me. I got lucky, folks. I got so lucky I can’t believe it. Moved to the big table, no limit. Couldn’t miss. This feller, he didn’t play, but he was watchin’ me. He brought me luck.”
The kid could hold them with his storytelling style despite the awful getup, Sam thought, now thoroughly amused. They wanted to know about winning at poker, they wanted to hear about the far East of the United States, ancestral home of the majority of them.
Spot went on, “Funny, this guy—his name is Judson—didn’t drink, but he hung out with me in all the joints. Kept talking against booze but sorta oratin’, like he was preaching but didn’t actually really believe, y’know? So I had a bundle and then he had to go East and he suggested I go with him.”
He paused, quaffed the beer, and grinned in his easy fashion. “I was a little high just then, y’know? Winning goes to your head.”
They all knew about that one time or another. They still listened. Spot removed his hat, and Sam saw that there was a little feather in the band.
“The trains are running,” said Spot. “That Judson. You think I can talk, ask questions; he can give me cards and spades. He wanted to know everything about the newspaper and Sunrise and all. Kept writin’ it all down, sendin’ telegrams. Well, we got to Chicago. That’s some roarin’ town.” He paused and then said, “I was paying for this, y’know, out of my winnings. Judson, he got the damnedest way, makes you think he’s doin’ you favors by feeding him. So we went on the trains to the East. To New York. Now, there’s a town. Anybody hasn’t been there oughta go. I tell you. It’s got everything.”
“So when did you run out of money?”
asked Charles Dingle. “When did you have to come home to your job?”
“Well, it was exciting bein’ with Judson. He told me a lot about himself, too, besides askin’ all those questions. He was in the big war. Made him a general. He’s in theatrics, he’s in publishing, he’s into every damn thing you can put a finger on. And some you can’t, from what I heard.”
“Sounds like a man full of bull dung,” said Charles Dingle.
“That’s true. But interesting dung. I swear the man’s been everywhere, knows everybody. Little fat redheaded feller. Belly on him like a bullfrog but quick on his feet as a cat.”
“Get to the point, Freygang,” said Charles Dingle. “Why after all this glory are you back in our humble midst?”
“I was just comin’ to that. We were staying in this fancy hotel, see? It was some place, all the pretty ladies walking around in the downstairs, what they call the lobby. And one morning I got up kinda late and looked and there was no Judson. He’d been talking to somebody about a magazine or something and I don’t know—he was just gone. So I counted what I had left and it was a whole thousand dollars. So I took the trains. And then I took the stage. And here I am.”
“Judson. You said his name is Judson?” asked Renee. “I imagine he picked out those . . . er . . . garments for you.”
“Latest New York style.” He preened himself. “Classy. Yeah, his whole name was—is—E.C.Z. Judson. He writes under the name of Ned Buntline.”
There was a moment of dead silence. Then Sam picked up the offending magazine. “You told him about me, did you?”
“Sure. Like you saved the town and all.”
Charles Dingle roared, “Freygang, you’re a damn fool!”
“I’m . . . I . . . what?” His mouth fell open.
Renee picked up the magazine. She asked, “Did this man question you about Sam in Denver?”
“Wh-why, yes.”
“And sent long telegrams to the East.” She shook her head. “And with the new printing presses, they put this trash together and mailed it all over the country.” She held up the weekly.
Spot took it from her, stared, turned pale. “I never! I never told him anything like this. Never!”
Charles Dingle sputtered, “A man died. You put Sam Jones in a position where every jackleg with a gun will come after him.”
“Oh, no! Is that true, Sam?”
“Already been one,” Sam told him. He shrugged, then said, “It’s happened before. But that damned name, ‘Cemetery’. You got that all over hell and gone.”
“Sam, what can I do?” He was almost in tears.
“Too late.”
Charles Dingle said, “Freygang, your mouth has always been too big. You’re fired.”
Spot looked around, bewildered. “I just thought... I thought I was doin’ a favor, braggin’ on Sam and Sunrise and all.”
“You thought wrong. It is not the first time.”
Sam said, “Now, just a minute, Dingle.”
“No minutes. I said it and I mean it.”
Dingle finished his beer and stalked out of the saloon.
Renee said, “Sit down, Spot. We know you didn’t mean any harm. It’s this Judson-Buntline. He should be stopped.”
For a moment no one spoke. Then Sam said thoughtfully, “Now, that’s an idea, Renee, my dear.”
“Not by you. I didn’t mean that.” But she knew she had said the wrong thing.
Two
It was a blue Monday midmorning when Spot Freygang came awake in his room at Widow Brown’s boarding-house. The inside of his mouth felt like dirty flannel. Alongside his bed was the pint bottle, now empty, with which he had tried to
console himself. Up the street a wagon rattled. He parted the curtain and saw that it was George Spade’s undertaker vehicle carrying Jim Jimson to Boot Hill. There were no mourners, only a Mexican gravedigger.
He groaned and fell back on the bed. His New York finery was strewn on the floor, on a chair. He thought of the man who wrote as Ned Buntline and cursed silently for five minutes, finding words he didn’t know he possessed.
He had never felt so alone. As an orphan various societies in Denver had cared for him. The only family feeling he had known was here in Sunrise, where he had felt secure. Now it was gone. The only people who had been kind to him last night were Renee and Sam. To the others he was a thing of the past, he thought, fired from his job, therefore expelled from town.
He dragged himself through dressing in his ordinary western town garb. He went downstairs, and the Widow Brown, a severe lady, was no help. Sniffing, she made him a breakfast of eggs and bacon and black coffee.
He went back up to his room and hung the big-city clothes in the closet. He counted his money. He had $805. In the bank there was a couple of hundred more. It was enough for a getaway . . . but to where?
A thought broke through the mist. He would find Ned Buntline-Judson. He would go back East and make the rascal take back what he had said about Sam Jones. He would wring it out of him. He would buy a gun and stick it up the devil’s nose.
Then he thought, but what of Sam? They would be coming for him, that was true. The fast-gun shenanigans of the West were diminishing, but far from gone.
He put on his hat and went into the gloom of the cloudy day and made for El Sol. He needed a pick-me-up. The morning stage came in, but he was no longer the reporter on the job to pick up a news item. Still, out of habit he watched as a salesman and a young man wearing fancy boots and a cocked Stetson descended. He shrugged and went on to the bank. Abe Solomon, the balding, bearded town father, sole owner, greeted him in the rear office.
Abe said, “Sit down, Freygang. I heard about it. It is too bad, no? But we will think of something.”
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