Cemetery Jones 4

by William R. Cox

  “You’re real good to think so.” Spot shook his head. “It’s no use. I’m fired. The town’s against me. I think I’ll draw my savings and go on.”

  “And where will you go?”

  “I dunno.” He was in the depth of depression.

  Abe said, “Think about it, my boy. Take some time. Sam is not angry with you, he is angry with the man who wrote the story. Miss Renee likewise. You still have friends, you see? Never leave when you have good friends. Go talk to Sam.”

  “You think I ought to do that?”

  “I know.” He nodded his head. “Sunrise needs young men like you, bright, full of get-up-and-go.”

  “I was maybe thinkin’ of the East.”

  “I was born in New York. Believe me, here is the future. Bright lights and big business are fine in their place. Here is the backbone, the future.”

  “Well . . . I’ll do like you say, Mr. Solomon. I’ll think on it. I’ll talk to Sam.”

  “Go and do, my son.”

  He went out into the muggy, dim day. The street was busy with traffic, people went about their business, no one scorned him. He felt naked but he was not, he realized as he wended his way toward El Sol. Sam had put his horse up at the livery stable and stayed over with Renee, he remembered; therefore, he was possibly having his morning’s morning in the saloon.

  He saw the man from the stage coming from Rafferty’s, that ‘sin of iniquity’ against which Charles Dingle raved in his editorials. Rafferty’s was the bar for the malcontents, the underprivileged, and the lawless. Rafferty himself was under suspicion as a leader in what lawlessness went on in the countryside. Spot increased his pace so that he and the stranger came to El Sol at the same time.

  “Hi,” said the young man pleasantly. “Goin’ in for a touch?”

  “After you.” He could smell the whiskey. The stranger had been drinking with Rafferty, he knew.

  He had been right about Sam. He was at the end of the bar. Isham was on duty. Otherwise the place was empty as usual this time in the morning.

  Spot said, “Morning Sam. I want to talk atcha.”

  “Wanted to talk with you,” said Sam. Isham asked the stranger, “What your pleasure, suh?”

  The man did not answer. He said, “Are you Cemetery Jones?”

  Sam stepped away from the bar. He was wearing his .45 Colt in its holster, tied down low, Spot saw. It was all very clear. The young man was standing foursquare. His intent could not be plainer.

  “Sam Jones at your pleasure.” Sam’s voice was low, weary, resigned. Another killing, Spot knew, was imminent.

  “I’m Dan Bowser from Texas. You think you’re the fastest gun in the West.”

  “Nope,” said Sam.

  “I read it in the magazine.”

  “A lie,” said Sam.

  “I figger I’m the fastest.”

  “Go away and be what you say you are,” said Sam.

  If Shaky was behind the bar, he would reach for the ever-ready sawed-off shotgun, Spot thought. Isham was a pilgrim; he knew little or nothing of gunplay.

  “You want to go outside?” asked the man named Dan Bowser.

  “When I’m ready I’ll go wherever,” Sam told him. “Why don’t you just take a walk, Bowser?”

  “You scared?”

  “I’m always scared when a man comes at me,” said Sam.

  “I’m offerin’ you fair play.”

  “That’s real nice of you. Now you can go and say Sam Jones refused to play with you.”

  “That ain’t good enough. It don’t prove nothin’.”

  “Sorry. It’s the best I got to offer.”

  Bowser became impatient. “If you won’t go outside, I’m givin’ you the chance to draw in here.”

  Sam said, “Forgive him, Lord, but he don’t know what he’s doin’. Now, mosey along, young feller. Just tell ’em Sam Jones is out of the business.”

  Bowser drew back a step, which placed him adjacent to Spot, whom he had ignored completely. “I said, draw!”

  Spot reached out. Grabbing with a deft right hand, he plucked the stranger’s gun from its holster. He slid it down the bar to Sam. Bowser turned and swung a fist. Spot ducked and shot a straight right hand to the jaw. Bowser staggered, then came lunging back.

  Spot jabbed him with two swift lefts to the face, then lowered his sights and dug deep to the body. Bowser whooshed a whiskey-soured breath and doubled over. Spot hit him behind the neck and stretched him on the floor.

  Sam said, “Now that was real nice work, Spot. We’ll just see if Donkey Donovan can cool him off in the hoosegow.”

  “I ... I knew you didn’t wanta kill him,” said Spot, out of breath. “It’s sure good Adam taught me to box. I did right, didn’t I?”

  “You did real good, Spot. Buy you one?”

  Bowser stirred. He crawled to his feet, his eyes crossed.

  He stammered, “What . . . what the hell?”

  Sam said to him, “You ran into a buzz saw. You boys who carry guns should learn to protect yourselves. Now you’ll have to pay a fine or stay in jail. Either way, you’re out of Sunrise. And if you come back, you got more’n me to face. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  “Ugh . . . Ugh ...” Bowser clung to the bar, trying to focus on Spot, shaking his head. “Hit me from behind.”

  “You wanta try me again?” Spot was amazed at himself. He had not been in a real fight since he was a teenager.

  Bowser shook his head. “Reckon I walked into a hornet’s nest,” he mumbled.

  “You’re alive,” Sam said. He stepped away from the bar. Bowser stared at him. The next thing he knew, Sam’s gun was against his belly.

  Bowser blinked. “Gawd in heaven.”

  “Things could be worse,” said Sam. “You understand?”

  Donkey Donovan came through the swinging doors. “I was makin’ my rounds. What’s goin’ on?”

  “Man needs a little board and lodgin’,” Sam said. “He coulda needed George Spade, but Spot here saved him. Busted him up some, but I don’t think he needs Doc Bader.”

  “Disturbin’ the peace?” asked the marshal.

  “Call it that.”

  “Come along, young feller,” Donovan said. He led the still-dazed Bowser to the door.

  As they left, Bowser was saying, “I never seen him draw. I never seen him start to make a move. Oh, Gawd.”

  Spot leaned against the mahogany. “Geez, Sam, I saw you in action but never did realize how fast you are.”

  “Never mind that. You tell me about this man Buntline.”

  Isham poured drinks. Spot realized that he truly needed one. He said, “Anything you want to know, Sam. I been thinkin’ maybe I’d go after him.”

  Sam held his glass up as if to admire the amber color of the booze. “Do tell. Great minds run in the same gutters.”

  “I got enough money . . . What did you say?”

  Renee, coming silently down the stairs, said, “He said that he was entertaining the same notion. Which I do not think is really too clever for either of you. No one can force a man to retract what he has printed. And if he did? The damage is done.”

  “Don’t see it that way,” Sam said.

  “Me neither,” said Spot. “If we got hold of him ...” He trailed off, staring at Sam. Then he asked, “Could we? I mean . . . you and me?”

  “It’s a thought.”

  Renee said, “It’s not a realistic thought.”

  “Still and all,” said Sam, “you know I’m goin’, dumb as it may be.”

  “It isn’t clever, that is certain.”

  “Never thought of me as clever,” Sam said, looking straight at her. “Are we fussin’ here?”

  “You haven’t settled into our—your—house. You have a horse and a dog to care for. There are still things to be done to the house.”

  Sam said, “Figure you can take care of that.”

  She said, “Isham, a glass of that red wine, please.” She never drank alcohol in the morning
. She was really displeased.

  Spot said, “Geez, I never meant to start somethin’. I mean, it’s my job to do when you think of it.”

  “We did the thinking me and you,” Sam said.

  “You did,” said Renee. “Two muddle-heads.” She took the glass of wine and went up the stairs, her heels clicking with displeasure.

  “Hey, Sam, I’m sorry,” said Spot.

  “Not your fault,” Sam told him. “I was goin’.”

  The truth was that the old wanderlust was on him and he had an excuse to go and Renee knew it and resented it. This was not the first time they had disagreed, but this was the biggest chasm that had ever developed in their relationship. He was hurt and she was angry and that was that. His pride and hers would not allow them to back down.

  “Well, when should we start?”

  Sam said, “No time like the present. Get your things together and I’ll see to the stage to Denver.”

  “Denver?”

  “Always pick up a trail where it begins,” Sam told him. “I’ll draw some cash at the bank.”

  “I’m paying,” said Spot. “It’s all my fault.”

  “You’re payin’ your own way. That’s it. Now scat.”

  Spot departed in haste. Sam hesitated. Then he said to Isham, “Tell Miss Renee I’ll write her a letter.”

  He finished his drink and walked out into the gloomy day.

  When Casey Robinson tapped on her door, Renee was lying on her bed dressed only in a long, clinging gown. She bade him enter and stood up and he politely turned his head away as the light shone through to line her curved body and long legs.

  He said, “Sam’s gone.”

  “I know.”

  “Look, it’s a Monday. There won’t be a lot of trade. If you want the night off, it’s okay.”

  “Why should I want to take off?”

  “Well. You know.” He looked at her now. She did not flinch. “You and Sam.”

  “So we had a difference of opinion. It’s not the first time.”

  He blurted, “Damn, Renee, if Sam wasn’t my friend ...”

  She smiled. “That’s a high compliment. Do you know why?”

  “Well ...”

  “Because you never would try to cut in on Sam. It took nerve to even mention how you feel. You mean it for the best in case Sam and I were breaking it off.”

  “Did I? I mean, what the hell ...”

  “Don’t be flustered, Casey. A woman is not going to be upset when a good man says he is on her side. That he thinks of her highly.”

  “I didn’t mean ...”

  “You wouldn’t. You’re a gentleman.”

  He grinned, relaxing. “Let’s not go too far, Renee. Nobody ever accused me of bein’ a gentleman before.”

  “Gentle is as gentle does. Now go downstairs and wait for me while I wash up and dress like a good boy.”

  “You goin’ to dress like a boy?”

  “Got me that time. My head’s a bit addled, all right. Sam’s going to be a target wherever that awful magazine is read. We all know it. The fool man could get himself killed like they did Wild Bill. Shot from the back.”

  “Not if he sits with his back to the wall and has Freygang to warn him,” said Casey.

  “Wild Bill Hickok only slipped up once,” she told him. “Sam isn’t perfect.” She smiled and added, “And what would I be doing with a perfect man? I’ll take care of Dog and Brownie and the house with a little help from our friends. Sam will go and do whatever and come home and stay for a while. A while. That’s Sam.”

  “So long as it’s all right with you.” He bowed himself out of the room.

  She sat down in one of the deep chairs. She had been well aware that Casey could see through the gown. It had been a dirty trick to allow him. She knew men; she had always known men. She had known them in New York and in Paris and in London. Perhaps she knew too much about them. Perhaps she didn’t know enough. It was an even bet in her mind.

  Unknown to anyone excepting Abe Solomon, there was enough money in his bank to take her anywhere in the world. The account was regularly replenished from a fund set up by her long dead father. Also safe in the bank were the last letters from one Philip Barnes Merrivale before she had cut the tie and vanished from his ardent pursuit. There were diamonds from the French count and emeralds from the Spanish prince at which she never so much as glanced.

  There was a gold chain around her neck appended to which was a little golden heart. It had been given her by Samuel Hornblow Jones in a rare moment of sentiment. She touched it and admitted to herself that she should not have argued with such vehemence over his search for the man called Ned Buntline. She knew very well that once his mind was made up, Sam would not be deterred.

  Still, there was her pride to be considered. And he should have come to bid her good-bye. She began to dress. Music was her escape, the salve for her wounds.

  The hound watched her with round brown eyes. He lay across the threshold, where he stationed himself at all times. He was Sam’s, but he was also Renee’s. He understood perfectly what was expected of him. He also knew his rewards, food always and attention now and then. She addressed him.

  “You are a lot like Sam, you know. You say little but you do perform. You’re really better than Sam; you stay put until you are needed.”

  She went downstairs and to the piano, and there she played a mournful tune of her own design until the customers began to squirm uneasily, whereupon she swung into the ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’ with great flourishes and brought them back to normal. If nothing else, she thought, she knew the charms of her music.

  Three

  Denver had changed since Sam had seen it last. It was a settled big city now, the flush of the gold rush ended, the rails coming in and out, a patina of semi respectability overall. There were few gun bearers in the streets and none in the fancy restaurants featuring lobsters from San Francisco and wine from California. He had worn his underarm holster in preparation for such stops on an uncertain journey, thus making it incumbent to use loose jackets. He had packed hastily, intending to buy what he needed, which brought him to the famed establishment of Jason Hedge, long ago recommended by that slick dude, Luke Short.

  “Going East? Well, we must do as the Romans do, now, mustn’t we?” The tailor was a pomaded middle-aged man with a slight lisp.

  “East or West, we do as I do,” Sam told him. “You don’t hand me any of them checkered tight pants duds, mister.”

  Spot Freygang winced. “Me, too. I’ll take whatever Sam takes. Just nice, plain duds for traveling.”

  “As you say, gentlemen.” He was ruffled but agreeable.

  “You don’t know where Madame Vestal got to, do you?” asked Sam.

  He was surprised when the man grinned and nodded. “Ah, yes. The Madame. She went to Leadville, I believe, when the stampede was on. Bat Masterson was there also.”

  “Bat was your customer, too?”

  “Best-dressed men in the West, Mr. Short and Mr. Masterson. Mr. Wyatt Earp, now, is more like you. Er . . . conservative.”

  Spot said, “You knew them all, didn’t you?”

  “Indeed, my boy. I’m known to indulge in a game of chance now and then.”

  “That damn Luke taught everybody in the West to know when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em,” said Sam. “Where’s the best joint nowadays?”

  “Missy Golden’s,” Hedge said without hesitation. “Square tables. High-stakes poker.”

  “That’s the one I was into,” said Spot.

  “Not quite Madame Vestal, but nice,” said Jason Hedge. “She doesn’t have that sweet smile that the Madame had when she dealt you the over card in blackjack, but she doesn’t. . . er . . . you know. Go upstairs?”

  “Women dealers don’t have to,” Sam agreed. “Some do, but it ain’t necessary.” He asked, “You been here how long?”

  “Man and boy. We were the first men’s tailors and the first to have a rack, from which you are buying
—with alterations done overnight.” He was proud. “People come for fittings, talk. We know everything that goes on, nearly.”

  Sam cast a glance at Spot. “You ever know a man named Freygang by any chance?”

  “Oh, me. Years and years ago.” He frowned, remembering. “Oh, yes. A gambling fellow. Red hair. So sad.”

  “Sad?” Spot was trembling.

  “Charlie Chase and he.”

  “The gamblin’ king.”

  “The same. It was a clean fight.”

  “Chase killed him?”

  “Freygang went flat broke. Didn’t have a two-bit piece when he died. His wife just had a baby. Nobody knows what happened to her. I believe she left the baby at the orphanage. So sad.”

  “What. .. what kind of a man was Freygang?” Spot got it out with difficulty.

  “Likable. My father liked him a lot. Talked a lot. His friends buried him. I remember because he owed us a bill, but father tore it up.”

  “The orphanage. Is that the one that burned down?” asked Spot.

  “Why, yes. Do you know about that?” He paused, stared. “I didn’t quite get your name, sir.”

  “Freygang,” said Spot. “Thank you, Mr. Hedge. I’m glad to hear my father was a gentleman.”

  “Oh, my dear! I’m ... I don’t know what to say.”

  “You’re a good man,” said Sam. “You answered a question from what you saw and believe.”

  They left with the earnest promise that their order would be ready for them on the morrow. They walked in silence for a block in the busy mile-high city. They came to the corner of Holladay Street and Sam stopped. “Missy Golden’s?”

  “It’s in the blood,” murmured Spot. “That’s where I got the gamblin’ itch.”

  “You never let it get the best of you.”

  “Maybe that’s from my . . . mother?”

  “Could be. Maybe you inherited luck from her, too. Maybe she remarried somewhere along the line. Not to fret. Best not to look over your shoulder.”

  They walked down Holladay Street searching for a sign. They passed through a passel of people of all kinds, miners, Orientals, ladies of the evening using the afternoon to peddle their dubious charms, gamblers—usually easily identified by their sober garb—young cowboys bearing their guns with a swagger, pilgrims wandering with wide eyes.