Cemetery Jones 4 Page 10

  Harvey now took Kirby aside and spoke with him. They argued, but Harvey was dominant, Judson could see. Kirby whined, “I’m dead beat, Deke.”

  “Get a couple hours sleep. Have a drink.”

  “Hell’s fire. Send somebody else.”

  “You do like I say.”

  Kirby accepted the bottle, took a drink, and shrugged. “I been up all night. I got to sleep, I tell you.”

  He went into the cave. The sun was high now and steaming hot. The second bottle had gone around and the others were also heading for shade. Deke Harvey came to where Judson sat on the log. The dilapidated mule stood unattended, a ragged saddle still on him, staring, it seemed, at Judson. One of his many beliefs was of man’s communication with animals, a theory that had yet to be fully explored. He stared back at the mule, nodding, smiling.

  Harvey was saying, “Now, when Rab wakes up, you and him will go to Peapack, see?”

  “To buy a wagon?” He pretended innocence even as his suspicions mounted.

  “Well, hell, no. I got a wagon ordered, see? Just that I need the money for it and horses to pull it.”

  “And then we go to the mine?”

  “Certain.”

  “With the tools?”

  “You’re gettin’ it.”

  He was, indeed, getting it. They were pretending to have tools delivered up here, dragging them up to the Hole and hauling them down again to a wagon that would be taken up again to wherever the gold mine might or might not exist. It was so brazen as to be ridiculous. Allowing for the liquor Harvey had downed, he was still being asinine.

  Still, Buntline was a captive. His money was nearly gone. He could obtain his balance only from the bank in Helena. Certainly he could not let them know it was not in Peapack.

  “Yes,” he said. “I see.”

  “Well. Anyways, Rab’ll see you safe and all.”

  “Very kind of you.” The mule still gazed at him. “We can also bring in some food.”

  “That’s right.” Harvey wiped his brow. “Too damn hot. Lookit that dumb mule. Starin’ at us like a fool. Rab never did take care of his stock. Oughta shoot it. Worn down to a nubbin.” His speech was becoming thick because of the liquor and the heat.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Judson said. “Why don’t you take a siesta with the others?”

  “Mebbe I will.” Judson followed him to the cave. He deliberately picked up his gun belt and adjusted it around his thick waist. These men would accept that as an adjunct to going to town, he knew. His mind was working coolly and steadily. He waited until Harvey had taken another swig at the bottle. The others had all been passing the second bottle around. None was more than half-awake. None wore his gun.

  He said in a soothing manner, “I’ll just water the mule. Maybe he can be of use later on.”

  He went back to the log. Again the mule seemed to be measuring him. He found a pail and watered it. The mule nuzzled him with a wet muzzle. He stroked a long ear. Drenched with perspiration, he was consumed with resolve. He angled toward the cave. From the shadows came mumbled talk, a few snores. He saw Harvey take another drink from the bottle, as though he was satisfied with the status quo and thus thoroughly relaxed.

  Experimentally, he edged the mule toward the path leading down from the tiny plateau. The animal seemed more than willing to obey, as if it were saying that it did not like its former rider nor the place to which it had come. That was what Judson had believed he divined in his communication with the creature. He learned that the mule was light-footed.

  From the shade of the Hole there was an indistinguishable inquiry. Harvey responded, “C’mon. Later. First we got to get the stuff from Lamont.”

  The mule took another step. The stirrups were adjusted far too long for Judson’s legs. It added to the danger, but he was in no mood for heeding danger.

  He eased the mule to the road, using it as a possible shield. He had no rifle, only the long-barreled revolver in its holster. Down and down they went, step by step, each moment an eon filled with a certain amount of terror, a fear he would never admit to his dying day.

  At the last moment, on the flat at the foot of the path, panic assailed him. He swarmed aboard the mule reaching for the rein, missing it, leaning, grabbing it as the animal took off. Before he could gain any kind of control, they were going pell-mell, not on the way to Helena, but through the ravine that cut Silver Mountain in two.

  Supper at the Naughright ranch was served in a dining room complete with a sideboard groaning with cut glass and other knickknacks from New Jersey. It was, Sam recognized, a symbol of the emigrant from the East. The meal was served by an apple-cheeked Irish girl named Molly Magee. In the kitchen was a rawboned woman named Sal Carlton.

  There the help, one oldster named Hank Kesler and a chore boy named Willy Bragg, were fed.

  It had been a pleasant afternoon. Despite his decision to cut down on the booze, Sam had partaken of the Jersey applejack with appreciation. He felt rested and relaxed.

  The two boys, Tom and Ned, were carbon copies of their broad-shouldered father. Mother Nelly was tall and dark. Linda looked like her mother, but there the likeness ceased. Miz Nelly was smiling, warm. Altogether the family seemed invented by a kindly Providence.

  When Big Jim spoke, all listened, even Linda, the apple of his eye. “You appreciate the applejack. I got to tell you, our forefathers invented a drink would knock your eyeballs out. My grampa served it. They poured the straight stuff into mugs, see? Then they topped it off with hard cider. Hard cider, man. Then they took a poker from the fireplace and mulled. I tried it once. Got four strong men stone-drunk on two of ’em. They just ain’t buildin’ us like the old-timers, Sam Jones. They broke the mold somewheres along the line.”

  “That goes for the mountain men,” Sam added. “Them that were here first, exceptin’ for Indians, and walked up and down the country carryin’ their possibles, livin’ off the land. Nobody like ’em before or since.”

  “We never saw ’em. Came too late. Mainly we got our own sorta people here. One from Missouri, one from Indiana, one from Jersey, like us, sorta cousins name of Apgar. Fine folk. Good young’uns, too. Course, our riders are on the drive.”

  “Should be home soon, shouldn’t they?”

  “You know trail’s end. They got to let off steam. Some drop out. We had one killed in a saloon in Dodge. Cowboys, we try to treat ’em good, but they got ants in their pants.”

  “It’s a hard life,” said Sam. “Didn’t take me long to find that out.”

  “Er . . . the book, it said you hit it good in mining.”

  “One mine. Near Sunrise.” He didn’t want to talk about the troubles that had ensued after he sold the mine to a villain of the first water, the murderer of Adam Burr’s father.

  “There was somethin’ about it in the book.”

  “Don’t believe it. Buntline took the facts from a young reporter and twisted ’em all around. Believe me, I ain’t a hero.”

  “Seems like you’re goin’ a long ways to prove it,” Linda Naughright piped up.

  Her mother said, “Now, now. Mind your manners, girl.”

  “She’s right,” said Sam. “It’s fool’s errand.” It was not only because he had been invaded by the blatant lies in the story that he had undertaken the chase. How many gunners would have come to Sunrise, after all? When the town was ready for them, how many would he have had to face? If he had not, as often, been restless, would he have left the easy life, left Renee for so long?

  Big Jim Naughright said, “A man has a right to his privacy. Buntline should be made to put things right.”

  That seemed to settle it, but Linda tossed her head and batted her eyes as she took another tack. “If any of it is true, then you are a man that has been a lot of places and seen a lot of things. We stay here and see ourselves over and over, day in, day out.”

  “This is her week to want to go away to school,” her mother said. “She has spells.”

  “I know all I�
��ll ever know about horses and ranchin’.” said the girl. “There’s a big world out there. Sam Jones has seen it. I can at least ask him about it.”

  “The less you know about it, the better off you are, young lady,” boomed her father. “This is the best life in the world. The country, the people ...”

  “Like Walkin’ Bull?”

  “The Indians ain’t botherin’ us. Two young’uns tryin’ to steal a yearlin’ ain’t persecution. If they come to us, we’ll be ready. Everybody has to pay a price for livin’ well,” said Big Jim. “Nobody gets anything for nothin’.”

  The two boys sat quietly, eating the big supper of tender hung beef and mixed vegetables and pan biscuits. They obviously followed every word of the conversation. They were alert, alternately amused and interested. It was a close family, Sam thought, as fine as any he had ever encountered.

  Before he had settled in Sunrise, he thought as Big Jim tumbled on, he would not have appreciated the Naughrights so much. He would have been polite but not truly interested. He was settling down at least to that extent. He was aware that the pretty, vivacious girl opposite him was admiring him, but it did not stir him as once it would have. That was solely due to Renee, his association with the lady from the East. The years were molding him.

  For a second he thought, moldering me? And then he laughed at something Big Jim was saying and the moment was past.

  After supper there was a piano, another reminder of Renee. The girl played, which did not remind him of his lady—the girl had enthusiasm without technique. They all sang, happy songs and a couple of hymns. At ten o’clock it was patently bedtime; there were masked yawns and a diminishing of high spirits from everyone but Linda.

  She said brightly, “Let me show you the bunkhouse, Sam Jones. We’re right proud of our bunkhouse.”

  No one objected. This family had trust in one another. The girl took a lantern down from a rack in the kitchen, lit it with a taper, and led the way out beyond the barn and stable to a long, low building.

  Inside it was immaculate. Gear hung from ceiling racks, all in order. Bunks were snug in blankets, one above the other. The old man and the boy were asleep.

  “We have so many bunks only for roundup time,” she said. “All the folks hereabouts vie with one another to keep things right. That’s what Pa means about us. We do try.”

  “You do very well. Best I’ve ever seen,” he told her. “Seems like somebody collects guns.” He nodded to a rack at one end of the big room. “Lot more weapons than there are people on this property. Even when your riders come home.”

  “We collect ’em. Me and the bays. Tom and Ned. We’re the best in Silver County.”

  “Collectin’ or shootin’?”

  “Both.” She led him to the rack. The weapons were in perfect condition, as good long guns should be. He examined them one by one, not touching them. A fine specimen brought him to a stop.

  He said, “Now this is a rare one. A Colt?”

  “They don’t make many rifles,” she told him. “That’s a Berdan, 1868. Forty-two-inch center-fire. Colt sold a heap of ’em to Russia. Tom and Ned found it in Helena. How it got there, nobody knows.”

  “It’s a beauty.”

  “Not enough heft, the boys say. It is pretty, though.”

  Sam said, “You know as much as the boys about guns, don’t you?”

  “You got to keep up with the men. I know more’n they do about horses.” She flashed her smile at him, showing white, even teeth. “Maybe I know about men, too. There’s enough of ’em around all the time.”

  The effect that Sam had on the opposite sex was showing itself again. He said in jocular kindness, “Linda Naughright, you don’t know doodley squat about men. You’ve got plenty of time to learn and everything on your side. You’ve got brains and beauty to spare. Just you be a good girl and let nature take its course.”

  After a moment she grinned back at him. “Another lecture. Just like Pa.”

  “Heaven knows I ain’t the one to lecture.”

  “I reckon you’re right. It ain’t men I know about. It’s boys. And I’ve got time.” She led him to a bunk a bit apart from the others. “For visitors. Bring in your duffle. There’s plenty water. You want it heated, there’s the stove. We mostly do our own; Pa believes in that.”

  “Thanks. And your pa has it right. Makes a feller feel more at home if he can do his own chores.”

  She said, “I like you, Sam Jones,” and offered her cheek like a child. He kissed her and she waved him good night.

  He brought in his saddlebags and bedroll and made himself comfortable. He felt more at home than he had since he had left Sunrise.

  It was pitch-dark in the ravine beneath the towering oaks and pines. The road lay due west. There had been no signs of pursuit, but the mule had slowed its pace after the first wild burst. Judson spoke softly to it. The mule did not raise its head. After all, he did not know how long it had been since the beast had been fed, nor how far Rab Kirby rode it without rest.

  Suddenly it stopped in its tracks, head down. Judson dismounted, thinking to lead it until it might graze.

  The mule wheeled and galloped back the way they had come. Judson yelled, stared, stopped hopelessly. Now there was danger it would return to the Hole in the Hill and alarm the drunken contingent, which he believed would kill him as they would swat a fly.

  If they awakened from their drunken stupor and gave chase, he had his revolver and several rounds of ammunition. He would hear them coming. He could hide among the trees. As a last resort he might be able to wipe them out from ambush.

  Would it work? Could he be the hero of one of his swashbuckling yarns? He laughed dryly.

  He laughed again as another theory went by the board. Communication with animals was not a constant. The mule had, like certain people, used him to get away—and deserted him.

  Then momentary panic assailed him.

  He was afoot, a middle-aged man with a limp, without sustenance. He was in strange country. There was no way to go excepting ahead to he knew not where or what.

  He collected himself. No man had survived more danger than he. From shipwrecks, through the War, civil disobedience resulting in a New York jail—through three marriages and countless affairs. He began to limp along the trail at the bottom of the ravine, ears attuning to the night sounds of birds and the rustling of wild animals. There was something ahead, there was the town of Peapack on the other side of the mountain, there were a few dollars sewn into his pants, there was his revolver. He had never thought of quitting, never in his life.

  And again, what a story he would have to tell!

  Deke Harvey was hurling curses to the high heaven. “Couldn’t none of you hear the goddamn mule goin’ down the road? Lenin’ that friggin’ jasper get away, him with more money?”

  Nobody dared suggest that he, too, had been in a drunken stupor.

  He yelled, “Saddle up. We got to chase him down.”

  “What good?” Rab Kirby asked. “To shoot him? He’s gotta be on to us now, some way or t’other.”

  It was true. The beans were spilled. Judson, however, knew nothing of the deal for guns. That was a good thing.

  Rab Kirby ventured, “He won’t get too far on that animule. I about rode it to death gettin’ here.”

  “He won’t be able to walk none. He’s a gimp,” said Umberson.

  Harvey dipped water from a bucket, spat it out, then forced himself to swallow a mouthful. He shook himself, seeking sobriety. For the moment he was at a loss.

  Suddenly from below a voice called, “Wagon comin’.”

  It was Pawnee. He came riding up. In the dim glare of hastily lighted lanterns he saw the disgruntlement plain on the assembled faces. He asked, “Where’s the money man?”

  “I got the money,” said Harvey. “It’s here already?”

  “Fixed it quicker’n we figured. Got a drink?”

  They had to open a fresh bottle. Pawnee drank deeply and said, “Lamont’s on
the prod. Breakdowns don’t suit him none.”

  Harvey said, “Too bad about him. Hemlock, you go. Make it fast, you hear me?”

  Hemlock saddled up. Pawnee watched him with curiosity.

  Harvey explained, “We got to have a spot for the guns.”

  Pawnee said nothing, but his slitted eyes took in every move as the others prepared to ride and brought up a horse for Harvey. Then he said, “See you down below,” and took off before there could be any questions.

  Harvey said, “Now look. I got the money. Lamont’s got the guns. Walkin’ Bull will meet us at the usual place. You-all got that straight?”

  “You mean Lamont’ll deliver ’em straight to the Injuns?” asked Rab.

  “Hell, no. Least he knows, the better.”

  “He dumps them off at the meetin’ place, then?” asked Hagan.

  “That’s right. He keeps movin’ after a sale. He don’t want the cavalry on his heels.”

  “It’s chancy,” said Umberson.

  “Matter of timin’. Keep that in mind,” said Harvey.

  “There’ll have to be a heap of Sioux there to carry the guns away. They ain’t bringin’ wagons, are they?”

  “Far as I know, they ain’t got any wagons. But Walkin’ Bull never breaks his word,” said Silvera. “That’s the way he is.”

  “What about takin’ us to the gold?”

  “He promised. We’re takin’ that chance on his word.”

  “Well, I reckon that’s all we got,” said Umberson.

  “We go into a bank, we ain’t got anything goin’ for us,” said Harvey.

  “This here’s a chance to get a stake and get the hell outa the country and live it up. We ain’t wanted in Canada. Nor Mexico, if anybody wants to go that way.”

  “Gimme enough and I could live back East,” Kirby said.

  They were saddled up. Deke Harvey led them single file down the road. The slice of moon grinned at a myriad of stars on a perfect night.

  At the foot of the steep trail they could see the lighted lanterns of the wagon to the east. They almost did not notice the animal grazing to westward. Then Hemlock said, “Damn mule,” and fumbled for his gun, still not recovered from the liquor he had partaken.