Cemetery Jones 4

by William R. Cox

  She gasped. She reread the last two sentences again. She put down the letter, her heart pounding. She was trembling; her hands shook. She stared at them, remembering a time when she was quite young and had sat at a piano with another. His slightly less skillful pair of hands had joined her in duets.

  Her parents had been alive then, stern, forbidding Victorians descended from a long line of Scots Presbyterians, but she had fled from them to dwell with her maternal grandmother in New York. They were Philadelphians. New York was a haven; she had loved New York.

  She had also loved Philip James Merrivale.

  Recently she had been forcibly reminded of him when a determined, slightly demented woman had endeavored to have her murdered so that she could claim him. This could mean that Philip James Merrivale still loved her, Renee. The probability had not stirred her. Now she felt nothing but a dim memory, as that of two young, reckless people, strangers to her present self.

  She retrieved the letter. The shock had been that, of all the mass of people in New York, Sam should meet Philip—and enjoy his company. She looked eagerly for a time of his arrival in Montana, thinking that she might join him, wanting him. He had signed the letter, ‘Love, your Sam.’ At least he had admitted it, she thought, and she smiled and carefully folded the letter and placed it in her carved strongbox.

  She washed her face and hands in a basin always ready for her, applied the slight makeup, noted the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, smiled ruefully at herself, and went downstairs and to the piano. She was not playing for the house now, she was playing for Sam. His favorite Mozart, light and dancing.

  Behind the bar Shaky was polishing glasses, his hands trembling but somehow always sure. A big man, hairy and ugly, wearing range garb, came bursting through the doors. “Whereat’s that Cemetery Jones?” he roared. “I aim to show him he ain’t but crow bait to Billy Blue.”

  Marshal Donovan slid through the door with his gun drawn. Shaky made a swift move and came up with a greener loaded with buckshot.

  Shaky said, “Stranger, you want to be arrested or would you druther be blown half in two?”

  Donovan said, “I’ll just take that hog leg of yours. It’ll be fifty dollars or fifty days for totin’ it indoors, mister.”

  Renee never stopped playing. It had happened before and it would happen again. The marshal and Shaky had worked out the routine; let the bad men break the law and be ready to grab them. It was just as well that Sam was out of town. It could be no worse wherever he went.

  At least she devoutly hoped so.

  ***

  E.C.Z. Judson produced the exact amount of cash which he had predetermined to pay for the stout gray horse and the saddle and bridle and the blanket, and handed it to the livery stable owner, who was known as Slippery Slim. He said, “Tell me, my good man, do you know a direct route to the place known as Hole in the Hill?”

  Slippery Slim muttered, “Never been jawed down so low since I opened.” He brightened. “You say Hole in the Hill?”

  “That’s right. Headquarters for one Deke Harvey, I’ve been told.”

  “Well, Colonel, it’s a hard ride up the Silver Mountain, but I kin draw you a map.” He took a stick and marked the dirt with its end. His directions were explicit.

  “Very good, my man. I thank you.” Slippery Slim said, “Just don’t mention to Harvey that I told you.” He was grinning to himself.

  Judson, who had demoted himself from general to colonel for western travel, knowing the western people were dubious of higher rank, mounted with surprising agility for a man who walked with a limp. “I shall see you anon.”

  He rode past Brewery Gulch upward, his ever-busy mind going over his last speech on temperance, which he had prepared but not delivered in Helena. His encyclopedic mind was always busy with sonorous phrases. He had been a sailor before the mast in his teens, a soldier, an entrepreneur, and a great reader. He had aspired to literature and found himself wanting. He had found his metier in writing for the public, thousands upon thousands of words on cheap pulp paper; he had exulted in it. He had written plays; he had eagerly sought adventure. This was the first time that he had sought gold in the rough.

  Actually, it was not only the gold per se, it was a welcome route of escape from two of his wives, who were clamoring for money. He was not always prudent with the large amounts of pelf that he had earned. He was not destitute, but what he had left was precious.

  He came to the peak of a long uphill slope and reined in, his auctorial mind instantly at work. He recited to himself,

  “A yellow-brown plain, stippled with green fields beneath a blue sky almost cloudless, heaven’s gift to the eye of mortal man. Jackrabbits leaping, a flock of deer splendid in their wild speed, huge birds flocking, flirting with the fleece of the clouds. Lakes along the wide Missouri glowing and glistening with color. No humans to desecrate Nature’s Nobleness.”

  He often thought in capital letters. ‘God’s Gift to unthinking Man, who destroys all that he touches.’ He rode on. His nimble mind descended from the heights. The popular storyteller took over.

  ‘Down on the plains a noble mountain man was tied to a stake. A small fire was already flickering at his feet. As the redskins pranced about him, chanting the death song, he faced them proudly even as he tasted awful torture at the sharp ends of their lances. With me on the hill were a sturdy group of heroes. Among them were Kit Carson, Buffalo Bill Cody, Wild Bill Hickok, Texas Jack Omahundro, Wyatt Earp, and Cemetery Jones. We were outnumbered five to one . . . no, ten to one. I cried, “Charge, my brave ones!” Downward we swarmed, each with his rifle in one hand, revolver in the other, reins in our teeth. Each held the fire until I gave the order, whereupon a lethal fusillade mowed down the savages like ninepins. Buffalo Bill was kicking out the fire which threatened the brave mountain man, Carson was cutting the bond which held him to the stake. A wounded Indian struggled to his feet, glistening tomahawk raised to split the fairheaded Cody. Cemetery Jones drew his trusty pistol.

  In the twinkling of an eye the redskin fell, a bullet neatly between his gleaming eyes.

  Now all the Indians who remained alive leaped upon their wiry Cayuses and fled. Our brave little band of heroes had no desire to pursue them. Welcome enough the job well done. They hurrahed as they circled the buckskin clad man they had saved from an awful fiery death.’

  ***

  The story ended abruptly. Less than fifty yards away a fat, impudent jackrabbit stared at him.

  He carefully extracted the rifle from its scabbard at his knee. He aimed. He fired. The rabbit made its last jump.

  That would be a hot supper. He was satisfied with himself. He had been an unerring rifle shot since he was a boy, before he had gone to sea. He was proud and satisfied that he had not lost his skill. He had never been a hunter for the sport, but killing for food was normal and correct. He honestly tried to be correct. He knew very well that he was most often not.

  The women, that was the devil in him, the way he treated the women. He dismounted and picked up the rabbit and tied its legs together and strung it to the pommel of his saddle. His mind went back to the girl in the hotel in Helena, just an ignorant cleaning person. What had he promised her? He didn’t remember. He remounted and rode toward his destination, thinking now of Bill Cody, who also had a weakness for the ladies—and a worse one dealing with alcohol. If Bill had not run out on him, he would not be here, seeking gold. On the other hand, considering his fear of the law regarding polygamy, he would be elsewhere than in New York or Connecticut. He had a lawyer straightening out that mess. He could enjoy his vacation, his adventure, in the meanwhile. He never did have trouble finding enjoyment. He was a born optimist.

  The road went ever upward. The sky was indeed a blue bowl. It was a pleasure to be alive in Montana on a day like this, he told himself.

  ***

  Big Jim Naughright had moved his family to Montana because he felt the foothills of New Jersey were closing in on him. He had settled in th
e lee of the Silver Mountain range on a section from the government and raised cattle and farmed with the aid of his two sons and acquired more land than he needed. He had sold off portions to three others, and when he founded the settlement—what there was of it—he had called it ‘Peapack’ after the Jersey town of that name.

  Big Jim was as wide as a barn door and as noisy as a freight train booming along on a still night. His sons, Tom and Ned, were of the same description, but quiet.

  His wife was a strong, rangy woman named Nelly. His daughter, Linda, was as pretty as a little speckled hen.

  Peapack consisted of a hay, grain, and feed emporium, a general store, two saloons, a grange hall and livery stable, and a few dozen dwellings. It was not on the map as yet, but Big Jim had high ambition.

  As of this moment the neighboring ranchers were gathered at Big Jim’s sturdy house to listen to a warning. They were Fred Forrest, Daniel Apgar, and Byron Nolte, all prosperous, all family men. They were drinking applejack, the Jersey liquor which Big Jim distilled from the fruit of his orchard. He was saying, “A scout from the Sixth Cavalry stopped by to tell us. Walkin’ Bull is ready to move any time now. Got a big bunch with him, some of them that got Custer no doubt. Give ’em guns and odds are they’ll be down on us like locusts on a wheat field.”

  Fred Forrest asked, “And where will the Sixth be?”

  “They won’t move till somethin’ happens, you know that.”

  Apgar said, “Well, now we know.” He was a worrying man, his forehead wrinkled. “All we can do is wait and see and devil take the hindmost.”

  Byron Nolte, who was from Missouri, said, “Can’t believe them scouts always. Let’s just keep our eyes open.”

  “The boys all got fast horses,” said Big Jim. “First one gets a sign rides to the rest of us. Maybe we’ll fort up.

  “Wait and see,” said Nolte again.

  So it was decided. Forrest and Apgar departed. Byron Nolte remained, holding out his glass for a nightcap.

  “Well, we got eight sons betwixt us,” Big Jim said.

  “And only one daughter. Nature didn’t divvy it up exactly even. My oldest is soft on your Linda, y’ know.”

  “So he can join the line. Linda does get their attention. Always wanted to ask you, By, you bein’ from Missouri. Did you name your boys for the James brothers?”

  “The Jameses are sorta shirttail relatives,” said Nolte defensively. “They been persecuted, them boys.”

  Big Jim laughed deep in his chest. “Seems like they’re doin’ a little persecutin’ of their own these days.”

  “Banks and trains. They steal from them and give to the poor,” said Nolte.

  “Not our concern.” Big Jim shrugged. “Walkin’ Bull, he’s our concern. You reckon he might get guns through that Hole in the Hill bunch?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past Deke Harvey.”

  “So. Maybe the Injuns’ll be satisfied with cows, like last time.”

  “You can hope for that.”

  Nolte sniffed the aromatic applejack in his glass and said, “One thing you Yanks do good, this liquor.” He drained it. “Mama’ll be lookin’ for me. Sweet dreams.”

  Big Jim followed him out to the porch. It was a beautiful Montana night, the moon at quarter-plus. He watched his friend and neighbor ride away, went indoors, and bolted the door for the first time since the last Sioux uprising. He went upstairs and found Nelly reading. She tossed the thin, paper-covered volume aside and said, “Such trash. Tom brought it from town. All about some gunslinger killer called ‘Cemetery Jones.’ No such ever existed.”

  Big Jim said, “I read the durn thing. Wish he was around here right now.”

  “We don’t need his kind.”

  Big Jim said, “Never mind him. I just got the latest question on Linda. Nolte’s Frank.”

  “That makes at least one boy from each family. Wouldn’t surprise me if there were more,” she said. “And Linda ain’t thinking on any of ’em.”

  “Too busy breakin’ colts and raisin’ hell.” Big Jim began to undress. “I dunno. Wish she’d pick one of ’em and get it over with.”

  “Leave her alone. She grew up with all those boys. They’re like brothers to her.”

  “I ain’t about to mess with her.” He blew out the oil lamp. “Wouldn’t do a bit o’ good.”

  In the next room Linda Naughright giggled into her pillow. She was the apple of her father’s eye and she knew it. She liked horses better than the local boys and made no secret of it. She turned over and slept.

  ***

  Deke Harvey and the half-breed known only as Hemlock rode in the deep ravine that cut through Silver Mountain to the plains where the cattle grazed and where the tiny town of Peapack was located. Tall pines and hearty oaks shaded the narrow trail. Wildlife fled at the sound of the two horses; birds scattered into the branches, quarreling, flapping their wings.

  There was a wide space in the road. As the pair from the Hole in the Hill reached it, a whistle sounded. They drew up and waited.

  Out of the thick forest came two men afoot. One was small and shiny-eyed, mincing with care amid the underbrush. This was Cal-Studd-o, known to the whites as Callo. The other strode with giant steps; this was Walking Bull. They stopped at a fallen oak tree. Deke Harvey and Hemlock dismounted, trailed their reins, and joined the Indians. For minutes they stared at one another.

  Hemlock spoke in the Sioux language. “We are your friends. We will prove it to you.”

  Callo said in good English, “This you must give us. Guns.”

  That was a word the hulking, flat-nosed Walking Bull recognized. ‘Guns.’

  “We will have the guns tomorrow, next day. Show us where to find the gold,” said Deke Harvey.

  Callo translated slowly, with care. Walking Bull roared for a full minute.

  Callo explained. “Walking Bull asks why he should trust the palefaces who have taken his land and killed his brothers. You must deliver the guns before we take you to the gold.”

  “A Mexican standoff,” muttered Harvey. He was a medium-sized, medium-colored man. Only his deep-set eyes and muscular jaw were out of the ordinary. “I need the gold to buy the guns. Just a day with the gold if it is as you say, layin’ there in chunks.”

  “Guns,” insisted Walking Bull.

  “There is no other way,” Callo told them. “We have been cheated too often.”

  Harvey turned to Hemlock and said, “You talk to him.”

  “Won’t do no good.” But he began an oration that went on and on.

  Harvey watched the faces of both Indians. He knew without asking that there was no arguing the decision of Walking Bull. He remembered that it had been said that Sitting Bull would deal with the white man, but Walking Bull was of sterner mettle. He said, “Never mind. We’ll have to get the money somewheres else.”

  He managed a smile. He gave them the high hand, palm outward, a sign of peace. He rode away with murder in his heart. Hemlock made a parting remark and followed. The Indians stood, impassive.

  Harvey had learned to control the urge to murder, but not before his hot temper had got him into trouble that caused him to leave home in Canada to seek his future in the United States. By gaining control of himself he had achieved a measure of command over others of his ilk. Men who had no compunction at stealing, and if necessary, taking lives in the process, were not easily controlled. Harvey had learned the knack through his self-discipline.

  He had always been honest with those who followed him, which was why Hemlock had come to him with the story of the gold found by the Sioux and how it could be obtained. The opportunity had come when he was down to his last dollar and there was Pierre Lamont with whom to deal.

  There was no way he could steal the guns from Lamont. There were too many angles, too many people who knew of the gunrunner, including the Sioux. Further, Lamont carried protection with him wherever he went, men, guns, dynamite, whatever it took. Lamont was a moving arsenal completely devoid of senti
ment or morals.

  So he debated with himself going up the winding, steep trail to the Hole in the Hill, commonly known as ‘the Hole.’

  It was a hole indeed, a freak of nature cut into the rock, beneath a hanging ledge and fronted by a shelf of land where horses could be held, where there was a bit of dirt where graze could grow, where a small tree struggled to stay alive. It was impregnable to attack if adequately defended.

  There were enough of them, Harvey thought. There was Hemlock’s father, named Hagan, middle-aged but tougher than his son. There was Sy Silvera, a fast-draw bad man wanted in Mexico and half the territories and states. And there was the giant Umby Umberson, constantly bickering with Silvera about which was the swifter pistoleer.

  When he told them the bad news, Umberson said, “We gotta wipe out Lamont.”

  “That’ll get some of us wiped out,” Harvey told him.

  “There’s gotta be a way.”

  “Cash,” replied Harvey. “Cold cash.”

  “How ‘bout those ranchers on t’other side of the mountain?”

  Harvey said, “They got cash, it’s buried or in some bank someplace. Besides, we don’t want anybody to know what we’re up to.”

  Hagan said, “Deke, we ain’t for diggin’ in the ground for gold.”

  “I don’t aim for us to dig. I aim for us to hire diggers. Sy there, he can get us diggers, plenty Messicans needin’ work. We need cash, that’s it.”

  There was no further comment. Harvey went to a fallen tree trunk and sat apart, thinking. For a moment he wondered if he was on a wild-goose chase. If Walking Bull was lying . . . But not only was that unlikely, he had no intent of giving guns to him before he saw the gold diggings. He knew little about mining, but he did know gold ore when he saw it.

  If it was as described, there might be enough to tempt Lamont to join in the enterprise. Millions had been taken out of Montana gold mines. On the other hand, there were enough people now in the deal. Too many, in fact, he thought. Something might have to be done about that. He would attend to it in good time. He might need only Silvera to handle the labor. The others were expendable. Accidents could happen.