“Jones. Sam Jones.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Cemetery Jones? You goin’ to stick around? You goin’ to confab with Big Jim?”
“Is there no damn place that stinkin’ book hasn’t got to?” mourned Sam. “Yes, I’m goin’ to talk with Naughright. No, I don’t reckon to stick around. Thanks for the information.” He turned and walked disgustedly down the street, wishing for the hundredth time that he could get his hands on Ned Buntline-E.C.Z. Judson.
The restaurant was cozy, with warming odors. Mrs. Jenkins was a comely woman of middle age. There were two customers, both armed, who stared at Sam for a moment before returning to their food. Sam sat down and hung his hat and said, “Whatever you’ve got with eggs, ma’am. Haven’t had breakfast.”
“Steak, fried taters, a tomato?”
“That’ll do fine for starters.”
“Anything I like to see’s a hungry man.” She called out to the kitchen, “The reg’lar with coffee and.”
She folded her arms beneath an ample apron and smiled at Sam. He returned the smile and said. “Came here to see Jim Naughright.” It seemed a good opening in Peapack.
“Why, you came to see the nicest man. The road north’ll get you there easy as pie. There’s word about Indians, but you don’t look like a pilgrim. They say the Sixth took away their guns.”
“Not to worry,” said Sam.
“The Naughrights, now, they come in here for supper sometimes. There’s Miz Nelly, the two boys, Tom, and Ned, and then there’s Linda. My goodness, wait’ll you see her. Prettiest little thing. Headstrong, some say, but I like a girl with spirit. All the young bucks in the country are after her. Can’t blame ’em a bit.”
Mrs. Jenkins appeared to be a mine of information. Sam said, “It’ll be a pleasure to meet them all.”
“There’s the Forrest boys, Jack and Junior, over at Cross Bow. There’s the Apgars, Obie and Cal. There’s the Noltes, Frank and Jesse. I believe every last one has his eye on her.”
“I heard over in Helena. Has she got a favorite?”
“Not that anyone could notice. Makes for a lot of gossipin’ and guessin’. Little place like this, what else is there to do?”
“It seems a right nice town.”
“It is, you bet.” She nodded and said “But you’re hungry,”. She disappeared into the kitchen.
The two men, having finished their meals, rose and came to Sam’s table. “Couldn’t help hear. Lookin’ for Big Jim? Right smart up the road next to the livery stable. Ain’t far. I’m Johnson, run the saloon next door.”
The other man said, “I’m Stone, the barber and all-around handyman. You figurin’ on stayin’, mister?”
“Just passin’ through,” said Sam. “Name of Jones.”
For once the name went without notice. Soon enough, Sam thought dismally, the word would go out from the livery stable. What else was there to do in a tiny town?
The two men saluted pleasantly and departed. A tall girl bearing a tray came from the kitchen. She was dark and shapely; she moved with natural grace. Behind her Mrs. Jenkins called cheerily, “Smile at the nice man, Mary Jane.”
Mary Jane did not smile. She put the steaming food before Sam and stood a moment. Then she winked at him, a deliberate droll gesture, and returned to the kitchen.
Tiny towns could provide surprises, Sam thought. They always had and always would. The rangy girl was no simpleton. He knew at once that if he had suggested that they meet later on, she would have consented. How far she would go was another matter. He ate slowly, with satisfaction. That was another thing about tiny towns, the victuals were inevitably superior.
When he had finished, mother and daughter were in the room. He gave Mrs. Jenkins a dollar and refused change. She said, “You give my best to the Naughrights, you hear?”
“Be happy.”
Mary Jane said, “Stop by again.” A small smile simmered. “Unless you fall for Linda, like all the rest.”
“I’ll try not to.” As he left he thought he might have added, “Jealousy does not become you, my dear.”
Better he did not. So few women and so many men—it seemed not to be working for Mary Jane. It would be interesting to see Linda Naughright.
He considered stopping in Johnson’s bar for a morning’s morning but decided against it. He had partaken too often and too much ever since leaving Sunrise.
At the livery stable Dempster had the horse ready. He said, “Right out that road there, Mr. Jones.”
Sam paid him. “This is a fine town. Good food, nice people.”
“Never been a finer place. ‘Twasn’t for the damn Sioux. I fit ’em before and don’t want to do it again.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” Sam promised him. He got into the saddle and rode on the wide path from town. The sun was high up and the clouds were dancing in high winds. He could see for miles. It was grazing country, as fine as any. Westward loomed Silver Mountain, where the high peak was snow-topped, where water would gather to swing down and irrigate the pastures. Jim Naughright had chosen well.
Sam felt that he could see forever, so clear was the air. Scanning the horizon, he made out small figures moving in a marionette dance. He spurted forward, sensing unusual action. The figures converged, parted, came together again.
As he gained upon the scene of action his first perception was that three riders were involved. Next he could determine, as the black horse galloped, that there was a young steer in the midst of controversy.
Now he could determine that two of the riders were Indians. The third seemed to be a small boy. He unlimbered his rifle. Knowing the deception of vision in this country on such a day, he was reluctant to fire a shot.
On the black horse ran. Now Sam could make out that the two Indians had turned from the steer to the small rider, dismounted, and were dragging him from the saddle.
Sam lifted his sights, unwilling to shoot anyone until he knew precisely what was happening. It was highly probable, of course, that the Indians were essaying to steal a cow and the boy was trying to discourage them. Still, he had no desire to kill until he was certain it was necessary.
He fired twice, to let it be known that he was on the scene. The activities ended; the two Indians wheeled to stare in his direction. One of them ran to his pony and grabbed a rifle.
Sam lowered his sights. He fired low but with no intent to do harm. His bullet buried itself at the feet of the armed Indian.
The boy swung a fist at the other Indian. Sam came wheeling in, now well in range.
The Indians changed their minds about fighting. They leaped upon their ponies and rode off. He could hear their defiant yells as they scooted for far places.
Sam rode in as the yearling galloped off to rejoin a small bunch on the horizon.
A high, distinctly feminine screech greeted him. “Kill ’em! Shoot their heads off!”
He said, “Whoa, there. Calm down a bit.”
The face staring up at him was certainly that of Linda Naughright. It was round and slightly freckled. The nose turned up; the hair now flowing was a deep auburn; the mouth was wide, the lips full; the tight-fitting blouse left no doubt of femininity. The eyes were green and giving off fire.
“The bastids were tryin’ to git me. You understand me? Tryin’ to git me.”
Sam grinned at her. “Now, there, who could blame ’em?”
“Why, damn your hide—” She broke off. She stared up at Sam. She looked him over with care as he reloaded his rifle. It was a comprehensive stare, and when it was concluded the eyes were altered, a smile lit her pretty face. “Guess maybe I went off the handle. They were tryin’ to steal one of our yearlin’s, you see. NTN don’t allow that. Nohow.”
“Not even for hungry Indians? You sound like a pilgrim,” he chided her. “Hungry Indians are dangerous.”
She went to her patient, standing mustang. “I just couldn’t stand by. I’m Linda Naughright. My pa—”
“Big Jim Naughright. I reckon he’s got more sense than his da
ughter.”
She flared up again. “I got enough sense to know a saddle bum when I see one!”
“When did you last see one?” A spoiled brat, he thought; nothing can be done about them excepting within the family, and the family usually helped with the spoiling.
She mounted gracefully enough. He saw that she was rather short-legged and would have not sat so well on a larger horse than the mustang. She grinned again, this time showing a dimple in her right cheek. “You got a quick tongue, stranger. Where you headed?”
“To see your papa.”
“Well, you did chase those damn Indians away.” She shrugged. “You can ride with me.”
“Why, thank you, miss,” said Sam. “I appreciate.”
She tossed her head, recognizing the mild sarcasm. They rode awhile in silence, then she asked, “You got a story about Walkin’ Bull like all of ’em?”
“Nope. Heard in Peapack he might be hankerin’—”
“We’re not scared,” she told him. “We take care of ourselves, us Silver Valley people.”
“I believe you. All those young bucks, your neighbors, they make a little army.”
“The boys.” She shrugged. “Okay, they’re good for that. They got what it takes. That way.”
“Why should they be any other way?”
“Mister, you don’t have to live with their lollygaggin’ and moonin’ and moanin’ over you.”
“You don’t enjoy?”
“I’m not lookin’ to marry somebody that young. Calf young is what they are.” She frowned, turning to look at him. “Why’m I tellin’ you all this?”
“Because I’m a stranger passin’ through,” he suggested. “It’s always easier to talk to people who ain’t close.”
She thought that over. “You’re right, stranger. I hadn’t reasoned that way.”
They came to the top of a gentle rise of the land, and he could see the Naughright house. He knew at once it had been built by someone from the East. It stood four-square with gables, facing south. There was a stable almost as big as the house, a barn, and a corral in which horses frisked in the sunlight, then settled down in the way of their ilk. It was an altogether peaceful, pleasant scene.
Sam said, “Your pa builds well.”
“He’s the best. Ask anybody.” Her pride was great.
“People already told me in the town.”
“We’ve got good neighbors, too. He brought ’em all in.” She looked hard at him again. “Pa wouldn’t like it if I didn’t know your name.”
“Sam Jones.”
Her eyes popped wide open. “Sam Jones? You’re the one we were talkin’ about? The one pa said he wished would come by and stick around? Cemetery Jones?”
“I happen to hate that name. Cemetery.”
“Well, it’s in the book. How you had your own cemetery plot. How you killed all those bad men.”
“I’m lookin’ for the scoundrel who wrote all those lies, happens.”
“They were lies?”
“One hundred percent.”
“You never shot anybody?”
He slumped in the saddle. He said sadly. “It’s a long story, Linda Naughright. Maybe I’ll tell it to your pa.”
“You mean it’s some true but mostly lies?”
“That’s about it.”
After a few moments she said, “I believe you, Sam Jones.”
“Thanks.” He fell silent. She chatted on, about her family, about horses and how she loved to ride, about the other three families in Silver Valley.
They came to the house. Sam tied up at the hitching rack in the front yard. Linda slid from the mustang and called, “Pa! I’m home. I got a friend.”
Sam’s depression lifted when the big man came from the house with hand outstretched, saying, “Any friend of Linda’s is a friend of mine.” He felt the warmth of the Naughright clan coming to him, giving him a space of comfort he had not experienced since leaving Sunrise.
When he awakened the aches and pains had subsided and he felt a bit more optimistic. He was, after all, E.C.Z. Judson, who had survived more dire situations than any man alive. He was the master of his fate, he was the inventor of sagas such as the one he was now experiencing.
He had become aware of his danger. No one could spend a day among these creatures without sensing the evil that was in them. He had made a mistake. He knew it and therefore he could overcome it.
He heard a strange voice, not that of one of Deke Harvey’s men. It was guttural but he could distinguish it. There was the gurgle of a bottle. The voice said, “What you want with ’em?”
“None of your goddamn business,” said Harvey. “Would your boss ask?”
“Nobody gives a shootin’ damn,” said the strange voice. “You pay, you get em.
“I want ’em now.” Harvey was frustrated.
Judson-Buntline measured his aches and pains. There was the wound from the war, the stiff neck from the near hanging. He worked them out one by one, stretching and turning. “Supplies,” they had told him; they had to have supplies to work the gold mine. They would be delivered any moment.
“Get goin’, then. Bring ’em, and damn quick.”
There was another gurgle from the bottle. “I go.” There was the sound of a horse departing down the steep road.
Judson made up his bedroll. He could smell coffee brewing. He took the last of his food supply, a cold meat sandwich, and rolled out of the Hole. They all grunted their good mornings. He helped himself to coffee in a tin mug and nibbled at the unappetizing sandwich. There seemed only to be beans and hardtack for the others. Everything was comparative, he thought. Tomorrow it would be the common fare for him.
Harvey came to him with a long face. “You hear that rider just left?”
His mouth full, Judson nodded.
“Well, Colonel, the tools got held up in a storm over the mountain there.”
“Are we in all that hurry? Another day, will it matter?”
“Not that much. But what we got to spend for the tools, Colonel, it won’t be enough for a wagon.”
“You intend to drive a wagon to the gold mine?”
“Only way.”
He finished his sandwich, drank coffee amidst a general silence. He had not led a long life of chicanery without recognizing deceit.
Finally Harvey asked, “You got the extra money in Peapack?”
Instinct told him to lie. “Yes, I have. What there is of it. If I were a wealthy man, I would not be seeking gold, would I?”
The whiskey bottle was still in Harvey’s hand. He took a drink from it and said, “Well, we need the wagon.”
“Then the gold must be close by,” said Judson.
“I ain’t savin’ where it is. I just said we need the wagon.”
It was certainly a lie. Deception was an odor emanating from these men. Judson could smell it along with the hated whiffs of alcohol. He almost began an oration against the Demon Rum, stopped himself in time. He said, “I would suggest that we first go to the mine, then bring up tools.”
“Lamont won’t go for that,” Harvey said. “The deal is to deliver the damn tools here.”
The man was losing patience, Judson detected. There were times when booze could provide an advantage. He said, “Why cannot this Lamont deliver the tools to the mine site?”
“Because he won’t do it. Besides, we don’t want nobody to know whereat’s the mine.”
“The Indians know, according to Rab Kirby.”
“Rab’ll be here. Should be here now. He got held up in Chicago. Sent me a telegram. He’ll tell you what he heard from the Injun. It ain’t—” Harvey broke off, confused.
“He has already told me what he learned from the Indian,” said Judson. “That is not the point.”
It was at that moment a voice called out from below. “Hey, Deke. It’s me, don’t shoot.”
Rab Kirby rode up the steep path to the Hole on a mangy mule. He was greeted by grunts from the others and relief by Harvey. He di
smounted and said, “I oughta shoot that damn animal. He’s the hardest ride I ever did have. Hey, Buntline.”
“Hello, Rab. Colonel Judson, if you don’t mind. I prefer to be called Colonel Judson.”
“Oh, yeah? Okay by me.” Kirby made for the bean pot. “I’m hungry as a starvin’ wolf.”
Another bottle was produced to welcome the newcomer—or for any other reason, Judson thought. The coincidental interruption had not been to his advantage, Harvey would probably recover his aplomb and the lying would continue, gathering force. Still, he had learned all too well that matters were not as they had seemed. He had been unwise to come here. He had been a fool to part with his money. He would, he now believed, be lucky to escape with his life.
Thus convinced, he turned his mind to escape. On land and on sea, in war and peace, he had been in myriad escapades that threatened his continued existence, but this was probably the worst. The place itself was the first and biggest problem. How to get down from the Hole without being detected? Where to go if he succeeded? There was a ravine below which undoubtedly led to the other side of the mountain, where the aforementioned Peapack must be. What was there in that part of this vast country? He could not know. He waited, now aware of his problem, his mind working smoothly, as it always did in time of dire trouble.
He sat upon the tree trunk. They talked among themselves, ignoring him, in the manner of men of kindred spirit who had not lately been together. Kirby told them of the women in New York, the bedraggled whores he fancified, ignoring the fact that Judson knew of him and of them.
Suddenly Kirby turned to him and said, “Hey, there’s a bad hombre lookin’ for you.”
“Indeed?” He was not interested.
“Name of Cemetery Jones.”
He started. “Jones? In New York?”
“You betcha. Like to scare me t’ death.”
“And you told him I was heading West?”
“I don’t claim to a lot o’ brains. But if I didn’t tell him, I wouldn’t have no head to hold what I got.”
“So be it.” It was not to worry at this time. If Jones wanted to see him, that was another matter. Perhaps he wanted to extend thanks for the story aggrandizing him. What was the name of the youngster who had regaled him with the glowing tales of Jones’s prowess? He could not remember.
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