Cemetery Jones 4 Page 11

  The mule threw up his ears, wheeled, and galloped back westward. Several shots were fired; none struck it.

  Deke Harvey said, “Damn, we had that bastid Judson afoot. Mule musta throwed him.”

  “Wanta go after him?” asked Umberson.

  “Not now. We’ll settle his hash later.”

  Harvey was intent on Lamont’s wagon and the guns. Therein lay the seed of his hope for gold.

  From the covered wagon came the call, “Deke Harvey?”

  “Right-o.”

  “Come closer. Just you alone.”

  He rode to where the lamps of the wagon outlined him. He sat still as a small silence fell. There was a rider alongside the wagon. Light reflected from a rifle barrel.

  “I’m Lamont.”

  “You’re the man I want to see.” Harvey tried to make it light and easy.

  The hard voice said, “Just in case you got ideas, take a look beside me.”

  Light was thrown by a lantern. An ugly muzzle protruded from the Conestoga. Behind it was a one-eyed black man.

  Lamont said, “A Gatlin’ gun. Just so you don’t get foolish ideas.”

  Harvey managed to say, “Reckon that ain’t for sale.”

  “You reckon anything you want. Have you got the money?”

  “You got the guns? I got the money.”

  “How much?”

  “What’s your prices like?”

  “You know my prices, Harvey. What’s the matter? Mr. Gatlin’ bringin’ out a yella streak?”

  The albino was correct. The repeating machine gun had been used by the North in the latter years of the Civil War with murderous effect. Right now it was capable of mowing down Harvey and all who stood with him in a matter of seconds. A man would have to be ignorant of its efficiency or plain stupid not to be affected by its presence.

  Harvey gathered himself. “I ain’t yella, but I ain’t no damn fool, neither. And here’s your money.” He held out the pouch of gold he had from Judson.

  “Bring it to me.”

  He had no choice. He rode to the wagon and handed over the money. Lamont bent his tiny pink eyes over it and counted. The muzzle of the Gatling did not waver. There was nothing to prevent the black man from mowing down Harvey and his men.

  Lamont looked up. “I never yet backed down an a deal. You oughta know that, Harvey.”

  “Sure I know it.” Relief relaxed him. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Where do you want the merchandise?”

  “Down the road a piece. There’s a clearing. Just follow us.”

  “Is there a town?”

  “Not till you go through the ravine. Then there’s a little burg called Peapack southward a few miles.”

  Lamont nodded. “We need supplies. Lead on.” Then he said, “Wait. Is that Big Jim Naughright country?”

  “No friends of mine over there,” said Harvey.

  “They collect rare firearms,” said Lamont. “Okay.”

  The man knew everything, Harvey thought as he rode back to the others. He said, “They got a damn Gatlin’.”

  Kirby said, “Long as they don’t turn it loose. You didn’t have no ideas, did you, Deke?”

  “Course not.” But he had, down deep, thought of taking over the gunrunners. It had been merely a notion. It would have been a feather in his cap to find a gold mine and have Lamont’s arsenal to defend it.

  He led the way through the ravine. Now it was just a matter of keeping the Sioux under cover until the exchange could be made. Then on to the gold.

  Judson was at the end of his tether. He collapsed alongside of the road. He ached from his scalp to the soles of his feet. Even the gun in its holster seemed too much of a load to carry. He put his ear to the ground to learn if there were pursuers. He lay staring up through the branches of a tree at the sliver of moon high in the cloudless sky and contemplated death. Now came the sound of hoofs and he drew the gun weakly, holding it in both hands, determined to sell his life at a price.

  The mule came trotting into view.

  He could not believe his senses. He dragged himself to his feet. He staggered into the road. The mule came to a stop, put back its ears, and hee-hawed on a plaintive note, as if to say, “Let’s stop the nonsense and get going.”

  “You devil,” Buntline said. He attempted to shorten the stirrups, but the task was beyond him. He barely managed to crawl aboard. The mule did not object. It seemed as beat up as its rider as it ambled on westward along the road.

  Judson had no volition now. It was up to the mule. At least, he thought, his notion of communications with animals had stood. The mule had returned after playing its little game.

  Seven

  Coming from the luxury of the bathtub in the house of Sam Jones, Renee Hart was refreshed to her bones but uneasy in her mind. The bath reminded her of her youth in New York. Dressing in the spare bedroom reminded her of Sam and the fact that she missed him with all her heart. She had always been self-sufficient; this was new to her.

  She heard the voices of Fay Kennedy and Spot Freygang. The new girl in town was responding warmly to the attentions of the young reporter.

  Spot could move around some now. Charles Dingle had not relented; he had refused to admit that he would rehire him. The Enterprise was the only newspaper in the area excepting a new one in Dunstan which as yet was not a worthy rival. However, the stiff-necked Dingle was not overly popular in Sunrise.

  The town was growing. People were moving in; a dress shop had opened; the mining industry was bringing in business as the Long John, owned by Adam Burr, employed more workers. Renee thought of this and pondered. Would she remain here with Sam for the rest of her life? Could she marry and possibly bear children? She was past thirty; she would have to make up her mind very soon.

  And what of Samuel Hornblow Jones? Would he ever be content to settle down? Donning woolen socks, Levi’s, a man-style checkered shirt, and soft boots, she was ready for a ride to keep one of Sam’s horses in condition. The thought was stuck in her mind that Sam had met Philip Merrivale and that it might be possible that Philip would take it into his head to pay a visit to Sunrise.

  It made no difference. She shrugged; she would have to tell Sam about her past sooner or later.

  Or would she? She would never ask Sam about his unquestionable philanderings.

  She donned a ribosa and went into the parlor. Spot was sitting in a comfortable chair. Fay Kennedy was about to leave. They greeted Renee, then both were unusually preoccupied.

  Renee asked, “What’s the good news today?”

  “Great weather for your ride,” said the girl. “I have to get back to town. Can I borrow the little mare?”

  “Take good care of her,” Renee said. “Sam’s training her for the quarter mile.”

  “I’ll treat her like a sister.”

  Dog, the hound that had adopted Sam, made a noise in his throat which meant he wanted food. Renee told him, “A bone is all you get. You’re fattening up like a hog for the kill.”

  As she went to the kitchen for the bone she saw the girl lean to kiss Spot before going out to catch up the mare. Neither of the youngsters smiled. When she returned, Spot was gazing out the window as the lissome Fay went to the corral.

  Renee said, “You’re mighty quiet this morning, sir.”

  “Yes’m,” he said.

  She went into the kitchen and lit the shavings in the flatiron stove, added a few sticks of wood, and put on the coffeepot. “Something in your mind?”

  He said, “Yes’m.”

  She came back into the parlor. He was still staring out the window. “You and Fay aren’t quarreling?”

  “No, ma’am.” He turned to her. “You’re prob’ly the best one I can talk to.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.” She waited.

  He swallowed hard and said, “It’s . . . well, Fay thinks we oughta get married.”

  “So. How do you feel about it?”

  “It’s not that she’s a saloon girl,” he
said hastily. “Adam Burr married Peggy. She was a saloon girl. I wouldn’t want you to think—”

  She interrupted him. “Don’t be silly, Spot.”

  “Right. You see, I haven’t got a job. And I don’t want to leave Sunrise.”

  “I think old Dingle could be persuaded,” she said.

  “I don’t want to work for him. I have ideas of my own. I’ve got a few dollars but not nearly enough to buy a press. I could run one, wouldn’t have to hire anybody to start. With Sunrise growing and all, I believe I could make it go.” He was bright-eyed now. “What do you think?”

  “The way the town is growing and with all your friends, it might well be an excellent idea.”

  “Friends. You think the town’s not mad at me on account of the story about Sam?”

  “Is Sam upset with you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Didn’t you save his life in Denver?”

  “I got him into that in the first place.”

  She said, “I think we’d better wait until Sam comes home, don’t you?”

  “Fay’s kind of anxious. I . . . we . . . well, you know.” He was embarrassed.

  “Yes. I can guess. And dancing in El Sol is not the best occupation for a girl. Perhaps you should marry first and worry later?”

  “That’s what she says.”

  Renee said gently. “Spot, the girl loves you. That’s what counts.”

  “I love her. I truly do,” he said. “She offered to work—just dancing—but that would never do. A man has to support his wife. That’s all that worries me.

  “Think about it,” she advised. “And wait for Sam.”

  They both watched the girl ride off. Spot muttered, “I sure am crazy about her.”

  Renee smiled at him. “Young and in love. Enjoy it, my dear.”

  She wanted to attend the coffee. She had known young love. It had proved disastrous, yet here she was encouraging a match between an out-of-work newspaper youth and a dance hall girl. Nothing in life really changed.

  And Sam was somewhere in Montana, and Dog wanted his bone.

  When the apparition appeared on the horizon, Sam Jones was sitting on the Naughright porch. The old man, Hank Kesler, was mucking the barn. The boy, Willy Bragg, was collecting eggs from squawking chickens. Big Jim and his sons were riding range. Linda and her mother were somewhere in the big house.

  Sam arose and walked down the drive to the conjunction of the road. The object of his puzzlement came closer and he saw that it was a mule and that the man in the saddle was wobbling so that he appeared to be a windblown stuffed dummy. As they came to where Sam waited, the man reared his head and croaked, “Thank heaven. The Lord has spared me once more.”

  Sam looked closer. Then he said, “The Lord has done me a favor, too. What the hell happened to you, Buntline, or Judson, or whoever you call yourself, you phony bastid?”

  Judson rolled off the mule, which stood with its head lowered and its ears discouraged.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I seek a haven only until I can gather my resources.”

  “Name of Sam Jones.” Sam steadied the man, who was reeling. “Just missed you in New York. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  “Could . . . could I have a dipper of water first, Mr. Jones?” Then he shook his head and stared. “Oh! You are Cemetery Jones. I made you famous all over the world.”

  “You lyin’ fool, you made me a target.” It was no time to go into it, he realized. The man was dead beat. “Okay. Water and whatever. The Naughrights won’t mind. I’ll get to you later.”

  He supported the stout figure to the pump. Upon inspiration he picked up a pail half-full and dumped it over Judson’s head. The victim gasped, shook himself, said, “Thank you, sir. I needed that.”

  Rather ashamed, Sam pumped, filled the pail, proffered a dipper. Judson gulped the water, spat it out, then drank.

  Willy Bragg appeared with a basket of eggs. Sam said, “Mind telling the ladies we’ve got company?”

  The boy stared, then nodded and went into the house. Kesler peered from the barn. Sam called to him, “There’s a mule here needs plenty attention if you don’t mind.”

  Judson said, “You are very kind, sir.” He swayed. “I have had a very bad night.”

  “Where’s your duffel?” asked Sam.

  “Alas, back at the Hole in the Hill.”

  “So you did go there.”

  “Like a fool.”

  “People will want to hear about that. Did Rab Kirby make it?”

  “Indeed, it was upon his arrival that I made my escape. By then I had realized my error.”

  “Why in the world would you join up with those outlaws?”

  “Gold, sir. The pursuit of gold, which has ruined better men than I. It is a long story.”

  Linda Naughright came from the house. At the sight of her the stout little rogue tried to straighten up, to comb out his matted hair with his fingers. He failed to make an impression.

  Linda asked, “Now who is this fat saddle bum?”

  Sam said, “This is no saddle bum. This is Ned Buntline. Meet Linda Naughright, Judson.”

  “Delighted, believe me.” He attempted to bow over her hand, but she backed away. “Please forgive my appearance. I have been through a deplorable experience.”

  “He’s the writer feller,” said Linda. She added mischievously, “You’re not goin’ to beat him up right now, are you?”

  Judson staggered back a step. His right hand moved, twitched, did not go near the butt of his long-barreled revolver. “There’s no cause for violence here!”

  Sam said, “There’s cause. I just ain’t for it. If allowed, I’ll clean you up and let you sleep it off.”

  Linda said, “Then you can shoot him!”

  “The young lady is bloodthirsty,” Sam explained. “Just turn around and head for the bunkhouse there.”

  Still swaying, Judson obeyed, for once silent. He was a pitiable sight, Sam thought. Still, he had not shown fear.

  Linda said, “What now?”

  “Could we clean him up?” asked Sam.

  “We could wash his clothes. Give him a bite to eat. Then you can beat up on him.”

  “If you’ll have Willy take his clothing . . . I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You’re not going to hurt him, are you, really?”

  “You know better’n that. Now go talk to your ma.”

  He watched her go, realizing that the girl had also felt pity for the bedraggled Judson. The rule of the land, often observed in the breach, “Never hit a man when he’s down,” was instilled in such people as the Naughrights.

  He followed Judson into the bunkhouse.

  The man was guilty of causing all kinds of trouble, he was responsible for Sam’s very presence in this country. There were words to be exchanged.

  Truly, it did not seem to matter very much.

  By the time the cavalcade came to the meeting place in the clearing off the ravine, Deke Harvey felt that he had been holding his breath since meeting Lamont. Too many things could go wrong, he well knew. If Walking Bull or any of his braves showed a head, Lamont would immediately know the guns were for the Indians. Harvey did not know what the reaction would be, but he did know it would not go well for him. If anyone mentioned the word ‘gold’, the fat would be in the fire.

  The albino made him nervous. The man was absolutely cold. When a bottle was passed, he sneered at it, refusing to drink. He had no small talk. He gave orders and they were obeyed on the spot. All that was okay, thought Harvey, excepting for the chill that it bestowed upon the proceedings. It was as if Lamont came from a different world.

  There was no sign of the Sioux at the clearing. Lamont merely made a gesture and men began offing the boxes of guns and ammunition from the wagon.

  When the job was finished Harvey said, “Well, that’s done. Until the next time, eh, Lamont?”

  Lamont said, “A man that’d sell guns to Indians would sell his mother into slavery.”<
br />
  “Wha-what Indians?”

  “Those in the woods around us.”

  “Now, wait a minute—”

  Lamont said, “You’re not going to sell them to the people of Peapack. Nor the Sixth Cavalry. Never buy me for a fool, Harvey. Do your dirt. It’s none of my business. But don’t try to throw a blinder on me.”

  He mounted to the wagon seat and drove off westward on the road through the ravine. Harvey stared after the big Conestoga, wordless. He gulped, knowing that Lamont was noted for integrity concerning his deals . . . still gnawed with worriment.

  Walking Bull and his interpreter, Callo, came stalking from their concealment. The long boxes lay in a row. Harvey said, “Here it is. Guns and bullets. Take me to the gold and they are yours.”

  Walking Bull threw out his chest and spoke hard words. Callo shook his head and translated.

  “Give them to us now and we will take the pale man’s wagon and all that is his.”

  Harvey laughed. “You would lose your lives and gain nothing. Lamont is poison. Lamont is the baddest of bad medicine.”

  In the space of time it took Callo to explain this, Walking Bull had calmed down, his eyes fixed longingly on the boxes. Harvey wondered how many Sioux were hidden in the woods. An attack from ambush would certainly wipe out him and his men if Walking Bull chose to give the order. Yet he felt no fear. This was a calculated risk, one he had gone over with his partners time and again. It depended upon the character of the Indian chieftain, upon his record in previous deals. It depended upon steady nerves and the belief that the goal was worth the risk. Gold was the word. All men were willing to risk everything for gold.

  Callo said, “Not far. We, you, me, we will go.”

  Harvey said, “Kirby goes with me. The rest of you stay here. Walkin’ Bull?”

  “He stays,” said Callo.

  And so they went. It still depended upon the timing, Harvey well knew. Still, maybe a million in gold . . .

  Sam could not believe it. Refreshed by a mere four hours of sleep, attired in clothing that fit his girth but was comically too long in the arms and legs, without the benefit of Big Jim’s applejack, Judson went on and on, like a ship sailing in a favorable wind. His nimble tongue was hung in the middle and swung both ways, as Linda whispered during the lengthy harangue.