“Things piled up,” he said.
“Montana. Spot filled me in on Denver; you wrote from New York.” She hesitated a moment, then went on, “You were a while in Montana.”
“Buntline. Real nice people. Good people. Indians.” He related the whole story to her. The morning waned. He said, “I got to have a bath. Want you to see my Sunday-go-to-meetin’ new clothes. Want to see my house. Our house.”
“Yes. And Spot’s dying to see you.”
“Donovan said he was okay.”
“He moved in here, down the hall, the room the girls used before Casey gave up that sort of business. He’s probably with Adam and Sol at the bank right now.”
“Spot’s making a loan?”
“Charles Dingle got in trouble. The bank is foreclosing on the Enterprise. Spot wants your advice about taking it over. Meaning, of course, your money.”
“The Lord provides,” said Sam. “There’ll be money from Montana. The mine. You know I’ll back him.”
She said, “He’d be glad for a loan. Or a partnership.”
“Partner? In a newspaper?”
“Sam, you need something to do. You can’t sit around. It’s bad for you.”
He smelled a trap. “Somethin’ to keep me at home?”
“Is that bad?” She kissed him again.
After a moment he said, “It’d be a horse on Buntline.”
“So you’ll think about it. I’ve been driving the buckboard in every day. We could slip out the back way and go home.”
“You do have the ideas.”
They recovered his luggage and went out the back way and harnessed the team and rode out of town. Every prospect pleased Sam. He had never been so glad to be home, he realized.
When they reached the house she said, “There’s a packet of mail for you. I didn’t even look at yesterday’s.”
“Maybe some news from Montana. I’ll take a look after I get that bath.”
He went to the only indoor bathroom in Sunrise and ran water. She came with a pot boiling from the stove and left him.
She had not glanced at today’s mail because of the telegram he had sent announcing his arrival Now she separated it. A heavy envelope engaged her attention. Embossed on the back was the name of the sender.
“Philip Barnes Merrivale.”
Her heart beat like a trip-hammer. She turned the missive over and over. Temptation assailed her.
The kettle still whistled on the stove. She had kept the water hot for Sam’s shave. She could steam the envelope open.
She could not. It was something she would have to face sooner or later. She had known that since Sam had written of meeting Philip. Dishonesty had no place here.
She waited. It was a hard hour. Sam came smelling of bay rum, refreshed.
She drew a deep breath and said, “There’s a letter here from New York that might interest you.”
“New York?” He looked at it. “Hey, it’s from that nice feller I met.”
He opened it, read it aloud to her.
“Samuel Hornblow Jones, Esq.: Greetings. Today we had news of the Indian uprising in Montana where you might well be. We sincerely hope all is well with you.
Bennett and I had hoped to visit you in Sunrise, but pressing affairs have made it impossible at the present time. Possible in the near future? It was good to meet you. All our thanks. The best of everything to you and yours. Sincerely, Philip Barnes Merrivale.”
“He was coming to see us, by golly.”
“Did you-uh-talk about me?” But Philip would not recognize the name ‘Renee Hart’ of course.
“Talked about everything. Right nice people.”
She drew a deep breath. She almost began to tell the whole story.
Then she relaxed. It was not yet the time. Sam was looking at her with hunger. She went into his arms.
CEMETERY JONES AND THE GUNSLINGERS
By William R. Cox
First published by Fawcett Books in 1988
Copyright © 1988, 2019 by William R. Cox
First Digital Edition: May 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
About the Author
William Robert Cox (1901-1988) was a writer for more than sixty years, and published more than seventy-five novels and perhaps one thousand short stories, as well as more than 150 TV shows and several movies on film. He was well into his career, flooding the market with sports, crime, and adventure stories, when he turned to the western novel. He served twice as president of the Western Writers of America, and was writing his fifth Cemetery Jones novel, Cemetery Jones and the Tombstone War, when he passed away. He wrote under at least six pen names, including Willard d’Arcy, Mike Frederic, John Parkhill, Joel Reeve, Roger G. Spellman and Jonas Ward.
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