Cemetery Jones 4

by William R. Cox

  “Bring in the rails and they carry all kinds,” Sam observed. “Now looky here.”

  “That’s the place,” Spot said. “It’s real classy.”

  The facade was in wrought iron, spelling out MISSY GOLDEN. There was a large wooden double-door entry. Sam opened it and they entered. It was strangely quiet in the gambling house. Wheels whirred and balls clicked at the roulette tables, cards snapped, glass tinkled, but the conversation was held to a low pitch. Chandeliers glowed, dark mahogany abounded; back of the bar was a long, shining mirror.

  A tall, impeccably attired man asked politely, “Do you bear a gun, sirs?” He added quickly, “Mr. Freygang. Good to see you again.”

  Sam handed over his .38 S&W. He received a brass tag with a number, saw his revolver placed in a velvet-lined wall closet. The man asked, “Anything in particular? Poker, perhaps, for Mr. Freygang, who is exceedingly lucky?”

  Freygang said, “This is Sam Jones. Maybe we’ll look around a bit. You haven’t seen Mr. Judson lately, have you?”

  “No. Please help yourselves.”

  They idled among the sparse attendees toward the bar, which glistened invitingly. Sam said, “Whiskey, please.”

  The bartender, a stout man in a white apron, nodded, then stared. “Hi, Sam. Been a donkey’s age.”

  Sam said, “Nixon? Yeah. Abilene.”

  “Good t’ see ya. Been readin’ all that slosh in the magazine. That Buntline, he’s got things all bollixed up, ain’t he, now?” He put a bottle of good whiskey before them and squinted at Spot. “You was here before, won a potful, didn’t you, young feller?”

  “People around here have good memories.”

  “She expects that.” He nodded toward an approaching figure. “She’s got notions. Runs the most highfalutin joint there is.”

  Missy Golden wore her bright hair high on her head in a fashion Sam had never before seen. She was as tall as he in her spiked heels, and her black gown fitted a superb figure. She moved with grace. Her eyes were a hard blue, her mouth too wide, her lips uncompromisingly thin, her nose too long, her chin too solid. She gave out strength plus a certain radiance. She fixed her gaze upon Sam.

  The barkeep said, “This here’s Sam Jones from Sunrise.”

  “Cemetery Jones,” she said. Her voice was low, almost masculine.

  “Don’t appreciate that name,” Sam told her. “Samuel Hornblow Jones.”

  “Not at my service.” She shrugged. “You come to play? You and your lucky young pardner there?”

  “Maybe. Matter of a friend of yours. Judson, Buntline, whatever. Thought you might know his whereabouts as of now.”

  “Friend? Why, the fat little joker proposed to me. He is some kind of whirligig, believe me.”

  “I’m aimin’ to find that out for myself. If I can locate him.”

  “Why, he’s prob’ly with his show. Buffalo Bill, Texas Jack. Those great actors he discovered.”

  “Stage show? You happen to know just where?”

  “Wherever there’s a dollar.” Her smile was without humor. “He really did it to you, didn’t he? Every jackleg gunslinger in the country will be lookin’ for you.”

  “That’s as it may be.” The woman’s arrogance was beginning to annoy him. “I’ll be lookin’ for whatever.”

  Three portly gentlemen whose habilaments suggested the work of Jason Hedge rolled into the place and approached Missy Golden. Her manner altered; she greeted them with affability.

  “Mr. Blum. Mr. Samuels. Mr. Jackson. Good afternoon. Mr. Dale awaits you.”

  “Four-handed? Not enough for a good game,” said Mr. Blum. He wore a diamond stickpin worth a small fortune.

  “You will play?” asked Mr. Jackson, a florid-faced man wearing a gold nugget for a stickpin.

  “Would you prefer that I play? Or would you care to let me off and admit Mr. Sam Jones here to the game?” She bestowed a smile upon one and all.

  “Sam . . . Jones?” Mr. Jackson was at once interested. “The fellow from Dime Novels? Me, oh my!”

  “Indeed, an honor,” declared Mr. Blum.

  “Your table awaits.” She questioned Sam with a smirk.

  “Obliged.” Sam decided he did not much like Missy Golden. “When I finish my drink.”

  “At your service, sir.” Mr. Jackson was a polite man.

  She led them away to a distant, semiprivate corner. Sam poured himself another drink, as did Spot, who said, “Blum’s a banker. Jackson’s mining, real big. Dale owns half the real estate in the new part of Denver.”

  “You sure know a lot about the town,” said Sam.

  “Judson,” said Spot. “And I’m a newspaperman. You hear things, you remember ’em. Samuels buys and sells cattle.”

  “Table stakes?” asked Sam.

  “They can afford to lose,” said Spot, nodding. “I’ll lay out, okay?”

  “And watch the door.”

  “They don’t allow guns, you know that.”

  “I know I don’t truly trust the great lady, Missy Golden.”

  “Why, she’s the toast of gamblers. She’s supposed to have the most honest house since Madame Vestal.”

  “Don’t doubt that.”

  “Then what?”

  Sam addressed the bartender, who seemed to enjoy talking. “Missy had somethin’ for Judson, eh?”

  The barkeep winked. “Spent a hell of a lotta time together. Until she heard he was married.”

  “Sometimes I amaze myself,” Sam said. “Some kinda whirligig, she called him. The way she said it.”

  Spot said, “Golly, Sam, you shoulda been a newspaperman.”

  “Use anything to save my neck,” Sam told him. “Shall we join the party?”

  Mr. Dale was skinny in rusty black with the face of a landlord, Sam thought. They were already seated with a chair open between Jackson and Dale. They cut for deal and Sam showed an ace. Spot, sitting on a high chair, could oversee all. Missy Golden wandered as customers dribbled in, stopping often at the poker table accommodating her high-playing customers.

  Blum was banking the game, it seemed. “Chips, Mr. Jones? Five hundred?”

  Sam said, “That’ll do,” and produced the money, accepting chips. “Three-card draw or five-card stud?”

  “Dealer’s choice.

  “Draw,” said Sam, shuffling, checking the deck, automatically looking for markers he knew would not be present in this high-class joint. He was as safe here as he would be in church. The doorman had a shotgun ready in case of emergency. Missy Golden would have spotters on the alert; her reputation assured safety.

  The other four players at the table were watching him handle the cards with hawk eyes. The challenge was there and his adrenaline flowed. He was jousting with men who could buy and sell him; he was working at the game that had one time been his occupation. He did not need to gamble, but he loved to play for more than he could afford.

  He anted twenty-five dollars, house rule-five out of every pot at this table would go to the house. He dealt around, careful to not show his real skill—which included every known sleight of hand to combat crooked opponents. The great Luke Short, himself an honest gambler, had taught him well.

  He squeezed out his five cards. He saw a pair of jacks. The other four players were stony-faced, squinting at their hands. Mr. Jackson nodded.

  “I bet twenty,” he said.

  Mr. Blum said, “Call.”

  Mr. Samuels shrugged. “Twenty’s too much.” He put in twenty dollars, though.

  Dale merely grunted and put in chips. None of them seemed strong to Sam.

  He said, “Raise twenty for starters.”

  Jackson said, “Call.”

  Blum and Samuels followed suit.

  Dale cocked an eye and said, “Sweet day. Raise fifty.”

  This meant that Mr. Dale held a high four-card flush or a straight open on both ends—or that he was boldly sandbagging. It was a time to take it easy and Sam said, “I call.”

  Jackson dropped out.


  Blum said, “There he goes, up to his old tricks.” He put in the money nevertheless.

  Samuels said, “You call him, I’ll save my money.”

  It was all poker palaver, meaning nothing. Of course they knew the play of each other. Sam was the outsider. He put in the fifty to call.

  “Cards if any,” he said.

  “Two to me,” said Blum.

  “Just the right one,” said Dale too cheerfully.

  Sam gave himself three cards. Silence fell as the players squeezed out their hands. Sam found a third jack but no further help.

  He said, “Check to the one-card buy.”

  Mr. Dale said, “Bet the pot.”

  Mr. Blum stacked the chips, discarding his hand. It was a nice enough sum. Three jacks was not a hand to fold. On the other hand—it was the gambler’s dilemma, whether to call a one-card buy.

  Sam shook his head and said, “Forced to call.”

  Mr. Dale laid his cards down one at a time. They began with the queen of spades, then went down, jack, ten, nine, eight. Sam had dealt him the straight. He nodded. “My own fault.”

  Jackson was already picking up the deck to deal the next hand. It was a game to be happy about, but Sam had that uncomfortable feeling which comes to all gamblers who have been beaten holding a good hand. Luke Short seemed to be whispering in his ear, “Play ’em close, pardner, don’t push.” Nobody knew the game better than little Luke. Sam did not draw decent cards for several rounds. Then it became the deal of his nemesis, Mr. Dale the landlord.

  It was draw poker again. Sam eased his cards and found a pair of aces. He opened for twenty dollars. A short-skirted girl came by and asked, “Drinks for anyone?”

  They all ordered whiskey. Sam went along. He looked at Spot on the high stool, but the reporter wasn’t having any booze. In fact, Spot looked a bit worried, highly conscious that things were not going too well.

  The others all played, no raises. A small man came into the place, stopped at the door, asked something of the man in charge. He then stared hard at Sam and departed. Spot nodded, indicating that he had noted the incident. Sam sighed and asked the dealer for three cards. This time everyone took the same. The drinks appeared as if by magic and Sam looked at his draw and found himself with another ace and a pair of kings.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught Mr. Dale with a smirk flitting across his narrow features.

  Sam said, “They got better. Make it fifty.”

  Jackson said, “That’s worth a call,” which meant that he had bettered his hand.

  Blum said, “Pass to the improvers.”

  Samuels shrugged. “In for a dollar, in for the works,” he called.

  Mr. Dale said, “Gents, I’m forced to bet the pot.”

  Sam tipped his hat to the back of his head. He said, “Mr. Dale, I, too, feel an urge.” He counted his remaining chips. He took out folded new bills. “I raise it.”

  Jackson and Samuels chorused, “Do tell,” and threw in their cards. Now Mr. Dale’s thin mouth tightened. He ground the five pasteboards together. His eyes burned. Mr. Dale was not an easy touch. He had topped Sam once, his poker-playing mind nagged at him. Could it happen twice? Was Sam his pigeon?

  On the other hand, since Mr. Dale had bought three cards, there was only one possibility of his holding the better kind—if he had drawn a pair to match that with which he had gone in. Luke Short would have bet all night that this was not the case.

  Sam sipped his whiskey, his hand steady as the proverbial rock. He was conscious that Missy Golden stood behind him, that Spot was holding his breath. The room seemed unduly quiet.

  Mr. Dale fingered the pile of chips before him. He had been on a roll, winning heavily. The other players waited with interest but without concern.

  Mr. Dale said curtly, “Mr. Jones, I call the bet.”

  It was Sam’s turn to lay down the cards one at a time. Mr. Dale pursed his lips. Without emotion he said, “Beats me.”

  It marked the turn of the game to Sam.

  Gone was the feeling of inadequacy. It was all superstition, he knew, but it was part and parcel of the gambler’s life. On the very next hand he drew a flush and won five hundred dollars from Mr. Dale and Mr. Blum. A touch of sourness manifested itself in the remarks of the Denver rich men. It wasn’t the money, Sam knew, it was the principle of the thing.

  It became his deal and he said, “Gentlemen, I will play one more round. Any questions?”

  “Your choice,” said Mr. Dale.

  The others looked at their gold watches, muttered beneath their breath, but nodded. “That’ll make it midnight,” said Mr. Blum, a big loser. “Can’t complain. Just gimme some tickets.”

  Mr. Jackson spoke up. “Seein’ as you’re playin’ with our money, would you consider removin’ the limit?”

  “If it’s agreeable to all,” Sam told him.

  There was a chorus of assent. Actually, it meant that it was possible for Sam to lay out and let the others vie amongst themselves. He said, “Okay, let’s stay with draw.”

  Now the word spread around the big room. Everyone wanted to be a witness to the no-limit game. The high stools were occupied; standees stood a respectful distance, forming a circle around the table. Missy Golden drifted among them, gesturing for silence. Sam dealt the cards.

  Edging his cards, he saw that he had given himself a pair of kings and a pair of jacks. Mr. Jackson opened for fifty dollars. The gentlemen were in earnest and out for his blood. Mr. Blum played along, as did Mr. Samuels and Mr. Dale. Everybody wanted in on a kill.

  Jackson took three cards, as did Blum. Samuels asked for one. Dale, oddly enough, took two cards, signifying that either he was laying back with three small ones or holding a high kicker.

  Sam did not look at his one-card buy. He said, “One hundred will do for starters, men.”

  Jackson made a face and dropped. Samuels called. Dale said, “I raise a thousand.”

  “Do say,” murmured Sam. He picked up his drawn card and eked a peek. He saw a face card. It was a king.

  He shook his head reprovingly. “Now, Mr. Dale, you wouldn’t steal one from me, would you? Let’s make it another thousand to you, sir.”

  Onlookers took deep breaths. Spot almost fell off his perch. Mr. Dale shuffled his five cards, peered at them, looked at the ceiling. Then he said, “This here is the damnedest game I ever did set in. I should raise to the roof, but I got to call you. I’ve got a full house and I ain’t got the guts to play it agin your luck.”

  He put down three queens and a pair of deuces.

  Sam said, “You are a very smart man, Mr. Dale.” He showed him the kings full and raked in the chips plus some cash added to Dale’s last bet.

  The spirit seemed to go out of the game with that play. Blum won a pot.

  Jackson finally captured a big one in which Sam was not a factor. Finally Mr. Dale gathered the pasteboards for the last go-around. The waitress came with drinks once more. Missy Golden stood behind Sam, smiling her best.

  “How about showdown for a thousand?” asked Dale. “This here Mr. Jones can outdraw us every time.” He spoke in utter good nature. The issue had been settled; Sam had beaten them fairly on their own home grounds.

  “Agreed,” they said, and Sam shrugged. He had figured roughly in his head that he was the winner of eight thousand dollars or thereabouts, by far the biggest of his career.

  Mr. Dale dealt the cards with a flourish, a deuce to Sam, a king to Jackson, a queen to Blum and a trey to Samuels, a ten spot to himself. He did not pause, spinning the cards with skill. Sam found himself with a jack high and no real hopes as the last round came. However, no one had paired; Dale was high with an ace.

  Dale flipped him the card. It was the two of diamonds, giving Sam a pair.

  Dale dealt to Jackson. No help. He slowed down, disbelieving, and gave Blum his card. Still no pair. Samuels’ drew the same—nothing. Dale shook his head and dropped the last ticket of the night.

  It was a
four of clubs. Mr. Dale did not have a matching four.

  Sam had won four thousand dollars on a pair of deuces. The crowd let out an explosive breath that almost blew Sam’s hat off.

  Mr. Dale flipped the remainder of the deck into the air. He raised his glass and said, “To a hell of a gambler with the damnedest luck.”

  The others said, “Hear, hear.”

  The crowd departed. The fun was over, the hour late. The four men lingered with Sam as he cashed his chips and folded his paper money. His figures had been correct; he had won twelve thousand dollars and some over, which he gave to the waitress and the tall doorman, who brought him his gun as the lights went down and the place locked up.

  The doorman leaned close and said in Sam’s ear, “Feller named Swifty Egan was askin’ for you. He’s poison. Ain’t allowed in here, too good with his hands, know what I mean?”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Sam said.

  “Does like magic tricks. Gunned down a few in his time.”

  “Yeah, that’s the man.”

  The four businessmen said their good nights, and Missy Golden saw them to the exit. Spot said, “Buntline talked to that man Egan. Didn’t like him. Egan claimed he was the fastest gun ever lived. Buntline heard about you and dropped him.”

  “Thanks to you,” Sam said dryly.

  “Well ... I’m sorry, Sam.”

  Missy Golden said, “Have one for the road with me. Maybe you’d best leave that cash here for the night. The streets are not all that safe this hour.”

  “I believe I’ll pass on the drink and take care of the money. Not that I don’t trust you, but we may be leaving early.”

  She pulled Mr. Dale’s chair close to him. “Egan’s a tricky little devil. Left-handed, he is. Makes a cross draw quick as an adder’s tongue.”

  “Never mind Egan. I want to know about Buntline.”

  “Old Jud, he never meant you harm. Look what he did for Bill Cody. Made him a play actor. Bill’s worth a heap o’ money on account of old Jud.”

  “Jud, did you say?”

  “E.C.Z. Judson, that’s his real moniker. Makes a pure fortune with his books and his stage plays.”

  “You wouldn’t know where he’s at right now, would you?” asked Sam.