Cemetery Jones 4

by William R. Cox

  All the time he talked, he was evading Sam’s eyes. Once he bragged that he had written the play Scouts of the Plains in only two days.

  Sam got a word in. “What took you so long?”

  For a moment it seemed that Judson would take umbrage. Then he smiled and said, “It isn’t Shakespeare, but it would have made no difference. Neither Bill Cody nor Texas Jack ever read the lines correctly. Truly it was their names that drew the multitudes, made thousands of dollars. I could do the same—or better—with you, Cemetery Jones.”

  Sam’s neck swelled. He held on to his chair with both hands to keep from leaping at the fat man. “You could . . . you could . . . I’ve been across this country and back to make you retract the lies you wrote about me, you pukin’ rascal!”

  Big Jim roared, “Now, now, Sam, my friend. Cool off before you do the deed.”

  Sam said, “There’s not only the fools I had to shoot, there’s a friend of mine, the one told you the stories—layin’ in a hospital.”

  “I am sorry about your friend. I will gladly defray his expenses and apologize to him. The gunmen you killed, the world is better off without them, isn’t it?”

  “Further and more,” Sam said, “if I ever hear you call me by that name again, I won’t be responsible for what happens to you.”

  “Better listen to him.” Big Jim seemed to be enjoying the exchange. “He might start a buryin’ ground with you as the guest of honor. Now, gents, simmer down. This can be settled peaceable. Somehow or t’other.”

  “It’ll be a start when he writes another story sayin’ the first one was a pack o’ lies,” said Sam.

  “People would never believe it, sir.” The man’s ego was colossal. “My books are read by millions. They believe in me, you see.”

  “Then they’ll believe it when you admit you’re a liar,” Sam told him. “And I’m settin’ on you until that’s done.”

  There was a silence as, for once, Judson seemed at a loss for words. The two Naughright boys came into the room. Tom, the eldest, burst into speech.

  “Mr. Judson, that revolver of yours. We never saw a Colt like that. Where did you get it?”

  The other boy, Ned, hastened to add, “We didn’t touch it. We’re real careful about guns.”

  Judson actually preened himself. “That, boys, is a Buntline Special, designed by me as gifts to Bat Masterson, Charlie Bassett, Neal Brown, Bill Tilghman, and Wyatt Earp, all fine lawmen. It has a sixteen-inch barrel, .44 caliber bore, and a finely carved walnut grip. Colt manufactured it of the finest materials, my specifications.”

  “Does it shoot?” asked Sam. “That is, if a man could drag it out in time.”

  “It will shoot straight and far. I am no novice with firearms, I assure you,” said Judson, smiling in his superior fashion.

  Big Jim said, “The boys collect guns.”

  “I noticed,” said Judson. “A good hobby, especially in this wonderful country of the West. I regret that I had to leave my fine Remington rifle in that Hole in the Hill, believe me.”

  Big Jim asked, “What did you hear from Harvey and that crowd? Anything important?”

  “They are an addled crew. They were buying machinery to carry to the gold mine, bringing it first up that steep grade before getting a wagon to transport it.”

  “Machinery?” Sam’s ears perked up. “What kind of machinery?”

  “Mining equipment, evidently. From a man named Lamont.”

  “Lamont!”

  An electric shock sped through the others.

  “Lamont?”

  “Why, yes. They were buying the machinery—”

  Sam broke in, “And Walkin’ Bull on the prod. And Kirby got the information about gold from the Sioux in the damn wild West show.”

  “And two and two makes four,” said Ben Naughright. “We got to get a message to the cavalry right now.”

  Judson stammered. “I don’t... I don’t understand.”

  Sam said, “Your Lamont is the biggest gunrunner in America. Machinery, my foot. Harvey’s buyin’ rifles and ammunition for the Sioux, for Walkin’ Bull and his tribe. Tradin’ for gold.”

  “Sure as shootin’,” said Big Jim. “Tom, you saddle up and go to town. Find out where the cavalry is at. If you think it right, go for ’em.”

  The youth said, “Yes, sir.” He was gone in a flash.

  Judson repeated, stunned, “Guns for Indians? The money I gave him is going for guns for Indians?”

  Nelly Naughright said in her gentle manner, “You didn’t know. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “But I do!” The stout man struggled to his feet. “What can I do? Anything. Just tell me.”

  “You can settle down and listen,” said Sam. “You might be needed to fire that big pistol of yours.”

  Linda said, “They might just come at us. Because of what happened with the young’uns when Sam chased ’em.”

  “Ned, you alarm the others,” said Big Jim. “We’ll be ready for ’em here in Silver Valley, you can bet on it.”

  Everyone was moving at once. Big Jim was a born commander, it was evident.

  Sam said, “Whoa. Just a minute here.”

  They all stopped, looking at him. He grinned at them.

  “Nothing’s happened yet. What’s said is probably right enough. Meantime, I’ll be movin’ out. Want you all to know that.”

  “Why, certainly,” said Big Jim. “None of your business.”

  “It’s my business, all right,” Sam told him. “Any time Lamont sells guns to shysters who’ll turn ’em over to Indians, that’s my business.”

  “That’s mighty fine of you. And welcome; no use savin’ you wouldn’t be a big help. But—”

  “But me no buts,” said Sam. “I aim to make a little paesar. Just point me in the direction of that Hole in the Hill or whatever and I’ll take a look—see.”

  “That road may be full of Indians.”

  “Spent some time with Apaches in my day,” Sam said. “Sneakiest little people in the country.”

  “You don’t know this country.”

  “I can learn,” Sam said blithely. “Let me get my walkin’ boots and show me the way.”

  Judson piped up, “I will show you the way, sir, and gladly.”

  Sam shook his head. “Now wouldn’t you be a big help spyin’ around, not makin’ a sound? You may not be a one hundred percent greenhorn, but Injun ways ain’t like it is on the stage.”

  Linda uttered a stifled giggle. Her mother said, “Now, now.” Judson swelled turkey like, then subsided.

  “Er, you are correct, sir.” He threw back his head. “I shall stay here, and if necessary I shall fight. You will find that I have experience in warfare.”

  Big Jim said kindly, “You oughta climb on that mule and decamp from here, Mr. Judson.”

  The red-haired man started to say “Colonel Judson,” swallowed, and repeated, “It is my duty and my wish to fight.”

  Sam said, “Be that as it may. I’ll be going along.”

  Thus it was settled. There was again motion, and Nelly Naughright said, “Linda, a cold snack for Sam. It’ll be coming on night.”

  Sam said, “Thankee, ma’am,” and followed Tom Naughright to the stable. There were four horses in their stalls, including the hired Stormy.

  Tom said, “Look, Sam, a hired horse—maybe you’d be better off with Mandy there. She’s trained by Linda. You tell her, she’ll do.”

  Sam looked at the sleek black mare. He patted her withers; she reacted, leaning against his hand. “You sure she’s tough enough?”

  “She’s amazin’,” Tom told him. “Great at night, too.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” He saddled up. The black mare seemed happy to be in action.

  Linda came with a package of food as Tom rode out for Peapack. She said, “I see Tom touted you on one of my favorites. Here’s your vittles. I sure wish I could go with you.”

  “It ain’t exactly a job for a gal.” He smiled at her. “Not that y
ou wouldn’t do to cross the river with.”

  “I’d like to know how many women you told that one to,” she said. “You’re a caution, Sam Jones.”

  “Never mind that. Is there a reata around here?”

  “There’s a hand-plaited one over on the hook.”

  It was soft and pliable. “Just right for night work. It ain’t cows I might have to rope.”

  She said seriously. “It’s a kinda damn-fool errand you’re takin’ on, you know that.”

  “Not so damn-fool as to wait and see what happens when Walkin’ Bull gets guns and bullets, darlin’.”

  “I know.” She showed a second of concern and then was herself again. “You go and git ’em, Sam Jones.”

  He rode out to the east for Silver Valley. The girl was still watching after him, admiring his easy seat in the saddle, wondering what fate had in store for him, dreading the danger, when her father and young Ned came to the stable. She dashed away a tear. Tears were not familiar to her; she resented them.

  Big Jim said, “Now, girl, what’s to be will be. You go in and do like your ma tells you. Fightin’ is for men.”

  “Fightin’ is for anybody when the time comes,” she said. She stood on tiptoe to kiss Big Jim’s cheek. Then she went obediently to the house. The time might come, she thought, when Sam Jones would see that she was a woman to be reckoned with.

  Big Jim was saying, “Tell ’em to be ready, that’s all. No sense them comin’ here. When Sam Jones gets back, we’ll know. If he don’t come back—well, we’ll know more.”

  His second son rode eastward. He straightened his shoulders and went into the stable. He had come here to this fine place, and now he would have to defend it. He had no illusion about fighting Walking Bull and a band of well-armed Indians. It was said they could not shoot with any degree of accuracy, but by sheer numbers they would be an awful foe. For the first time since he had come here, he was a deeply troubled man.

  In this place Mother Nature had been up to her tricks. Deke Harvey held the nugget in his hand, turning it over and over, exulting over the strain of gold visible in the dying light.

  There had been a storm, witness the lightning-struck trees sprawled as though a giant scythe had cut them apart to leave a path to the precious metal. Then an avalanche must have hammered at the rock of the mountainside. Any prospector wandering in the Silver Mountains could not have missed finding the place.

  So wide was the swath made by the storm and the avalanche that it would be easy to level a road. Once the claim was filed . . .

  There was the rub. Was this Sioux land? If so, no claim would be recognized, but the mine could be worked on speculation that a law would be passed and the Sioux robbed once more of their territory.

  That would bring Deke Harvey into the middle of an explosive situation, which he could not afford.

  He asked Callo the question. The Indian shrugged—they wanted the guns at any price.

  The dream began to curdle around the edges. He cursed himself for allowing Judson to escape. Judson could have provided the necessary front. They could have filed, or tried to file, several claims in each name . . .

  Now he was in a deep quandary. Vaguely, all these problems had been in his mind, but the magic word gold had prevented him from assaying them. He was far from the first, nor would he be the last, to be obfuscated by the image inspired by the word.

  His mind flitted back to Judson. A colonel of the army, a highly educated man, he must certainly be of use. He could have influence all the way back to Washington, to Congress. If he could be captured, there were methods to force him to cooperate.

  “This is gold,” he said to Callo. “The deal is done.” He asked, “Did any of your men see a man on a mule goin’ east?”

  Callo nodded. “Red hair. Fat. To ranch. NTN.”

  “I want that man.”

  The Indian said, “We want NTN. Shoot at our braves. Our braves near have squaw. NTN man shoot, nearly kill.”

  “You goin’ to attack NTN?”

  “We do that.”

  Harvey said, “You tell Walkin’ Bull we’ll be right along with you-all. Tell him I want the red-haired man alive.”

  “I tell.”

  Harvey and Kirby mounted and followed the Indian down toward the canyon road. Harvey still held the chunk of ore in his hand.

  Renee Hart sat at the piano in El Sol and ran her fingers up and down the keyboard, composing an oratorio known only to her as “Song of Sam Jones.” Adam Burr listened with appreciation. When she finished she turned to him.

  “At least Sam is making money on his trip, isn’t he?”

  “Quite a few dollars. No word today?”

  “Not since he left Helena.”

  “No news is good news—and all that rot.”

  “I worry,” she confessed. “His luck can’t hold out forever. Or can it?”

  “The indestructible Sam Jones?” He hunched his broad shoulders. “Could be. The story that enraged him is almost true, you know. Embellished, but a lot of fact.”

  The doors opened and Fay Kennedy entered the saloon with Spot Freygang hanging to her shoulder. She steered him to Adam’s table. He sat down carefully and said, “Doc brought me in. Said I needed to have a bit of a change.”

  “He was gettin’ skittish as a hen on a hot griddle,” said Fay Kennedy.

  Spot lowered his voice. “You think there’ll be a lot of people hate me?”

  “Not that I know of,” Adam told him. “Sam wrote that you told Buntline the truth and he made up the rest.”

  Spot said, “Look, everybody’s wearing his gun.”

  “The town council voted,” said Fay Kennedy. “It’s only till Sam comes home.”

  “It’s all my fault.” He was disconsolate. “Me and my big mouth.”

  Adam insisted, “You paid for it when you took the bullet meant for Sam.”

  “I didn’t take it. It was probably aimed at me.”

  “You just got to cheer up,” Fay Kennedy insisted. “You can’t spend the rest of your life moanin’ and groanin’.”

  Charles Dingle entered El Sol. He looked directly at Spot, hesitated, then said, “I see you’re up and around again, young Freygang.”

  “And your rotten paper hasn’t had a decent picture or a good story since he went away,” said Fay Kennedy.

  “My dear girl, how would you know?” Dingle’s sneer was chronic of late. Circulation of the Enterprise had been falling off.

  Interposing as Fay began to leap to defense, Renee said, “Perhaps Mr. Dingle would like to rehire you, Spot.”

  “Never!” Dingle stalked to the bar. “Beer, sir.”

  Shaky stared at him for a moment, steadying both hands on the mahogany. The room went deadly silent. Shaky slowly reached down and brought up a glass, then a warm beer, which he opened and set beside the glass. His eyes bored into Dingle with contempt. “Just like you say, mister.”

  The silence in El Sol was loaded with resentment. Two cowboys deliberately moved away from Dingle, leaving him standing alone with his warm beer. For a moment it seemed that he would explode. Then he put a coin on the bar, turned on his heel, and departed.

  Adam said, “The man deals only with facts. He doesn’t divine the inner soul of this country.”

  “You are right,” said Renee. “You know, Dingle has never been part of our town. Not really. Always the observer.”

  Adam put his hand gently on Spot’s shoulder. “So we’ve learned who made our newspaper interesting. Bothered us, nosied into our business, pushed in with his camera, made us all annoyed at one time or another. And kept us interested.”

  “That’s just newspaper business.” Spot was embarrassed. “That’s the way it has to be. Someone’s got to stick his nose into it.”

  “Dingle is a lonely man,” said Renee. “Which doesn’t excuse his way of running a newspaper.”

  Adam forbore further comment. He knew that Dingle was mortgaged to his ears at the bank.

  Fay Kenne
dy said, “Spot oughta start his own paper right here in Sunrise.”

  “As I said,” Renee told her. “Let’s wait until Sam comes home.”

  Fay pouted. “Everything in this town waits on Sam Jones, seems like.”

  “And that’s the way it should be,” Spot told her. “Sam doesn’t know it, but he’s the heart of Sunrise, has been since he arrived. Look how we’ve grown since he decided to settle down.”

  “Sam and our friend here, Adam, have indeed contributed to the growth of Sunrise,” said Renee. “I wouldn’t exactly call him a town father, though.”

  “More like the Prodigal Son?”

  They laughed. It was time for Renee to play, and she went to the piano to applause from the cowboys, who wanted to dance. Casey Robinson came from his office and sat down with Spot.

  He said, “Good to see you out and about. You thinkin’ about a job when you get well enough?”

  “Thanks, Casey. Truth to tell, I’m thinking about starting my own paper here in town.”

  Robinson said, “The way things are goin’ for Dingle, you might hold the thought. Wait’ll Sam gets home and we’ll palaver.”

  Fay Kennedy muttered, “Sam Jones, Sam Jones, Sam Jones.”

  Spot patted her hand and the music swelled and the cowboys danced with the girls and life went on in Sunrise without Sam Jones.

  Eight

  Sam Jones rode the easy-gaited black mare named Mandy away from the setting sun toward the Silver Valley as swift as the breeze, eager to find tracks while there was light. As he rode, he thought of the man called Ned Buntline. He had crossed and recrossed the continent intent upon visiting vengeance upon the man—and now he felt himself rather liking the defiant, roly-poly redhead. It was plain that the writer was not a coward. Nor was he mean. He was a breed entirely unfamiliar.

  The man had led Sam to some of the warmest, nicest people he had ever encountered, and here he was, on an errand fraught with danger, on their behalf. Life had taken another tricky turn. One thing led to another, which led to still another. Win a few, lose a few, he concluded. It was then he espied the first tracks.