Cemetery Jones 4 Read online

  The barkeep called time, and Sam went back into the theater and stumbled to his seat. Before the lights went down he saw the two elegantly attired gentlemen in the stage box on the right. One of them seemed to know about the real West, he thought. The other knew enough to be aware of how bad was the play.

  In the first act ‘Durg,’ played by Buntline, had mouthed about Indian massacres. As this act opened the ‘Indians’ were onstage in full force, about a dozen of them. Some were really Indians, Sioux, thought Sam. The fakes were easily identified. He recognized one, Rab Kirby, a onetime hanger-on of Deke Harvey’s Montana gang, a bunch who robbed an occasional bank, rustled cattle. The law had chased them into the mountains when last heard of in Sunrise. He wished he were in Sunrise right now, listening to Renee play the piano.

  He had refrained from going backstage out of consideration for the people who had paid admission. It had been no problem to locate Buntline; there were advertisements of the show in the newspapers. He had arrived too late to do otherwise than buy a ticket. He was weary from the long journey from Denver and he was angry and disturbed at the acceptance by eastern people of the ridiculous content of the play. It was another reason to score against Buntline.

  The curtain went up, and now the stage was full of the Indians, counterfeit and otherwise. They immediately went into a sort of war dance, like none Sam had ever seen. Then they squatted and began yowling about the whites and what they had done to Indian country and how they had bedeviled the redskins and driven them hither and yon. This went on for some time.

  Then onto the stage came Cal Durg, weaponless and for no sane reason.

  The Indians were delighted, of course, and proceeded to bind him to a stake upstage and center, whereupon Durg-Buntline delivered a long, garbled speech in which he declared himself innocent of all crime and ready to die bravely. This took quite a bit of time. Then they killed him . . . and the curtain again came down.

  Now the audience howled and booed and jeered and stomped their feet so that the floor shook. Sam muttered to himself, “That’s nothin’ to what I’ll do to him when I get my hands on him.”

  Next it was Cody and Omahundro talking about the slaying of their pard and how they would avenge him. That went on with a lot of other tall tales about fighting the Indians and outlaws and whatnot.

  Sam looked up at where the gentlemen from the bar were seated to see how they were taking all this. They were leaving, but they were not departing the theater. He watched them and saw that they were making their way to the rear. That would be the path to backstage, he thought. He would have followed them had not the confusion of the crowd hemmed him in. He resigned himself to wait. The scouts were about to kill all the Indians before he could slide, apologetically, into the aisle. It took time to maneuver where kids intruded, screaming with delight. Then it was a question of finding the way around and back again to where the two gentlemen had vanished.

  Finally he arrived, into a mass of confusion. Everyone was talking at once. One of the gentlemen in evening dress asked, “Are you sure he left the theater?”

  There was a chorus of assent.

  The second gentleman said, “Ned left without the money from the box office? Impossible.”

  “He’s gone,” said one of the cast. “His carpetbag is gone and he always goes with it.”

  Bill Cody took a nip from a silver flask. “I s’pose it’s because we had the disagreement,” he said rather sadly. “I s’pose yawl can blame me.”

  “How about our money?” someone demanded.

  Cody said, “It’ll be in the box office. I know Ned wouldn’t cheat. - Besides, I’ll be responsible.”

  On the outskirts of the crowd Sam could not but know that Buntline had departed without notice. He saw out of the comer of his eye the man named Rab Kirby sneaking for the exit. He moved quickly, seizing Kirby’s arm and dragging him through the door to a dressing room, kicking the portal closed behind them.

  Kirby stammered, “Jones? . . . Sam Jones?”

  “The same. Now you tell me about Buntline.”

  “Uh, what you wanta know?”

  “Where is he?”

  “How the hell do I know?”

  “Nobody else is sneakin’ away without his money.”

  “That don’t mean nothin’.”

  Sam produced the gun from beneath his arm. “It means something to me, Kirby. Talk.”

  “Geez, Sam . . . Geez.” He swallowed hard. “He ... he took off. He left soon’s he got kilt onstage.”

  “That figures. Where did he go?”

  “He ... he hadda make a train.”

  “And where was that train headed?”

  “Geez, Sam, how should I know that?”

  “Because it’s written all over you. Because I got a hunch you’re goin’ after him.”

  “Sam, put away that gun. It makes me real nervish. I know who you are. Geez!”

  “I’ll put it up your nose if you don’t talk.”

  Kirby said, “Montana. He’s goin’ to Montana.”

  “I see. Whereabouts in Montana would he be goin’?”

  “Geez, Sam. One of the Injuns, he said there was gold up around the old diggin’s. Near Helena. I sent old Ned to Deke Harvey. He’d know, y’see?”

  “You bastard. I see you’ve sent Buntline to a real crooked jasper. I see where you figure to cut in.”

  “It’s a business deal,” whined Kirby. “Ned wanted out. One of his wives is after him. Cody’s quittin’. Ned’s always lookin’ for somethin’ new, his writin’ and all. It was somethin’ to get him away from his troubles, see?”

  “And into more trouble than he can handle, most likely. You always were a no-good. Reckon you always will be. Keep out of my way from now on, you hear me?”

  He replaced his gun. Kirby scuttled to the door and ran down the passageway.

  For the first time in days, Sam relaxed. He looked into the dressing room mirror and saw dark circles beneath his eyes. He had barely slept on the noisy trains since Denver. A fool’s chase, he thought. How many gunslingers could come after him? Now that the word would go out that he had dispatched those who had tried him, how many would dare to come?

  Then he thought of Spot Freygang suffering in Missy Golden’s care and he knew he would have to find Buntline, if only to point out to him the damage he had done and warn him against future behavior.

  On the other hand, if he desisted, there was a good chance that Mr. Buntline would wind up in more trouble by far than Sam proposed. Left to the mercy of Deke Harvey and friends, Buntline could very well wind up dead. He had no wish to see Buntline killed.

  There was no one backstage when he left the dressing room; they were all up front demanding their money. He found his way to an alley and walked toward Broadway. He had checked in at the Brevoort Hotel. He wondered if he could find a cab at this late hour.

  As he came to the sidewalk he saw a handsome equipage draw up at the curb. He was about to hail it when he perceived that it was a private conveyance with a uniformed driver, polished, slick in the carbon light of a Broadway street lamp. The two gentlemen he had noted in the theater were about to climb aboard.

  Only one of them made it. As if they sprang from the pavement, a half dozen figures appeared. They moved with dispatch, one at the horse’s head, others making a threatening circle about the carriage. One, tall and ugly, pointed a revolver at the head of the man still on the sidewalk and demanded, “Stand and deliver, curse yez!”

  For a split second it was a tableau frozen in time.

  Sam did not think. He reacted. Out came the gun beneath his arm. The light was good enough for him to see his target.

  He shot the revolver from the man’s hand. Another of the gang turned, and he saw the glint of blue light upon metal. Again he fired. The man with the gun went down. Others spun around. The man already in the carriage blew harshly upon a silver whistle.

  Sam saw further danger and fired again. A second gangster hit the pavement. There w
ere more whistles on the night air and heavy feet pounded.

  A big man and two others wearing shiny badges came into view. Before any of the marauders could escape, there was a profusion of heavy sticks swinging at them. They scattered like blown leaves.

  One of the policemen started for Sam. The gentleman still on the walk cried out, “No! No! He saved us.”

  Sam blew smoke from the barrel of his revolver and took fresh cartridges from his pocket to reload it. The large leader of the police force stopped short, squinting at him.

  “You’re mighty damn quick with that gun,” he said.

  The gentleman who had cried out came to them and said, “Thank the good Lord, Inspector. The man had the pistol almost down my throat.”

  “Took a chance, didn’t you?” The policeman was not yet satisfied. “How do I know you ain’t another holdup man lookin’ for his chance?”

  “Name of Jones. Sam Jones.” He put the gun back in its holster.

  The gentleman cried, “Sam Jones! Are you the one Ned Buntline wrote about?”

  “Yes, damn his soul,” said Sam. “I got a bone to pick with him.”

  The gentleman said, “I’ll be responsible for Mr. Jones.”

  “I dunno,” said the police officer.

  The second gentleman now approached. He said, “Inspector Williams, I am James Gordon Bennett. I will share that responsibility. You have a nice collar here. Why don’t you take the survivors to jail and let us go about our business.”

  The big man’s demeanor changed on the spot. “Mr. Bennett. Yessir. Of the Herald. You’ll say a good word for us in the newspaper?”

  “Have I not always supported you? When others accuse you of breaking too many heads, have I not applauded your success against this Gas House Gang?”

  “Indeed you have, sir. And thank you. Men, clean up this mess. We’ve got a good bag here. Move!”

  The police moved. Bennett said to Sam, “And this is Philip Merrivale, who nearly had his head blown off.”

  Merrivale extended a hand. “Mr. Jones, I did not believe Buntline’s story of your marksmanship, your speed of hand. You converted me.”

  Sam said, “Just don’t believe another word of that story, please. A pack of lies.”

  “Come, let the inspector do his work. He won’t mention your name. He’ll take credit for saving us,” said Bennett.

  “Where are you staying?” asked Merrivale.

  “The Brevoort,” answered Sam.

  “Fine. There’s a quiet private bar open at the Brevoort,” said Bennett. “Maybe you could tell us the truth about your part in the opening of the West. We are both very much interested.”

  There were facing, upholstered seats in the carriage, although it was a lightweight vehicle. Fancy curtains were at the window on each side. It rode the paving like a boat in water. It would not have lasted an hour on the main street of Sunrise.

  Philip Merrivale said, “Well, Mr. Jones, you’ve dealt with the worst gang New York has ever seen, the Gas House Gang. You have our undying thanks. How do these ruffians compare to the bad men of the West?”

  “Not long ago I was up against a gang. They were as ugly, I’d say, but not as quick. This bunch seems organized.”

  “They are indeed,” said Bennett. “Far too well.”

  “Before then we had the Five Points Gang,” said Merrivale. “They were also well led by one Monk Eastman. It seems they are always with us.”

  “Beating them over the head hasn’t subdued them, but it has made them think twice,” said Bennett.

  “Shooting them works about the same,” said Sam. “Buntline’s books don’t help us any.” He told them what had happened to him and to Spot Freygang.

  “Crime is where you find it,” said Merrivale. “Many of our scoundrels flee to the West, of course. But isn’t the West coming into control?”

  “Where I was jumped is Dunstan, a new settlement,” Sam said. “It couldn’t happen in Sunrise.”

  They came to the hotel and went into a small bar off the lobby, where there were few customers. They took a corner table. Sam was weary, but good company and excellent whiskey made it pleasant. Usually noncommittal, he found that it was easy to open up to these men. He told them, pridefully, about the advancement of Sunrise in the few years since he had taken residence there.

  Finally Bennett asked, “Since you are a solid citizen, Sam, how did you come by that rather dreadful nickname?”

  Sam shook his head. “Gents, such a thing is handed to you if you’re good at defendin’ yourself. And if you’re a town feller. Ranchers, workin’ cowboys and such, it just don’t happen to them.”

  “Perhaps you should move back here,” suggested Merrivale. “I’m sure you could be useful in any number of occupations. I have a company in which you’d be first-rate because of your western background. Investments and so forth.”

  “Or perhaps with our backing you could open a law enforcement agency,” added Bennett.

  “Me leave Sunrise? Why, it’s the best place in the world to live,” Sam heard himself saying. “Wouldn’t leave it for all New York City.”

  He immediately recognized that he had stated a truth never before spoken. He said, “Gents, I’ve got to get back there. I’ve got to get a train for Chicago, then mosey up into Montana. And I’d a heap rather be goin’ to Sunrise.”

  “Noon tomorrow,” Bennett told him.

  “It’s been just wonderful meeting you, sir.”

  “Especially since you saved us from the Lord knows what,” said Merrivale. “I hope someday to visit the West. I’ll surely be in touch.”

  “I’m liable to show up anytime,” Bennett told him. “I’ve already developed a fondness for the country.”

  Sam said, “Anytime. Just built me a house with room for visitors. Be glad to see you.”

  In his room he undressed and fell into the comfortable bed. New York, New York, he thought, it was indeed a parlous town. That he should be forced to use his gun, that it was condoned by the police because of two wealthy, prominent gentlemen, was beyond belief.

  That Buntline should have so narrowly escaped him was another matter. That he would have to seek out the dangerous Deke Harvey and his motley crew was not something to which he looked forward. He fell asleep to disturbing dreams.

  Five

  It was Adam Burr and his wife Peggy who picked up Spot Freygang at railhead in Doc Bader’s ambulance hitched to a spanking team from the Burr ranch and brought him by easy stages to Sunrise. There they put him to bed in Sam’s new house, cared for in turn by Fay Kennedy and Renee Hart and the slightly alcoholic but ever-efficient doctor. There Renee heard the story of Denver firsthand.

  When Renee and Spot were alone, she asked, “This Missy Golden, is she . . . er . . . pretty?”

  “Sorta pretty.”

  “Did Sam like her?”

  “Not that much,” said Spot. “She tried, all right. But Sam, he went back to the hotel and on to New York.”

  “Of course,” said Renee.

  “Sam, he don’t fool around with women like her.”

  “Doesn’t he? But they fool around with him.” She was astounded at herself for talking in this fashion.

  “Oh, sure. Sam, he’s got something when it comes to the ladies.”

  “So you told Buntline.”

  “Uh ... Did I?” He was abashed. “That old Ned, he has the gift for asking questions. He would’ve been a great reporter if he stuck to the truth.”

  It stopped there. She did not pursue it further. She was ashamed of herself as it was. Fay Kennedy arrived with supplies from the restaurant. Renee walked slowly back to town.

  She walked past the church being built by Clayton Lomax. Sam had donated a thousand dollars to the project. It was almost finished, hip-roofed, deep, with its meeting hall stretching behind, half-painted white. She had never been jealous, yet she had asked leading questions of Spot. What was happening?

  In all their intimacy she and Sam had never uttered t
he word ‘love.’ They depended upon each other, shared their innermost thoughts and feelings. They had never mentioned marriage in regard to their relationship. Yet there she had been, like any maid, wondering if Sam had gone to bed with a blond floozy in Denver. Had she reached that term of her life? She believed so with a rush of relief. The unhappiness of her earlier life would be erased.

  She stopped by the tiny post office, where Josiah Begley presided pontifically, he who, with his wife, managed to know nearly all of the town’s business. He said, “Two for you, Miss Renee. One from your New York bank.” He paused, beaming. “And one from New York which you are lookin’ for.”

  She recognized Sam’s schoolboy handwriting and smiled.

  “Thank you, Mr. Begley.”

  “Sam in New York. Now that’s a circumstance.”

  “You knew he was going there. It was in his telegram.”

  “Well, now ...” For once he was flustered.

  “You and Charlie do exchange notes, don’t you?” She referred to the old telegraph operator.

  “Well, now . . . Everybody’s interested in Sam. Everyone knows the gunslingers are after him. We all hope and pray for him.”

  “It’s good to know that.” She smiled at him and went on toward El Sol and up the stairs to her lodging. Josiah Begley would also like to know the contents of her monthly letter from the New York National Bank. She was sure he realized that it contained a bank draft, but he had no real evidence—only Abe Solomon at the bank was privy to that. And Sam, she added. She looked at Sam’s letter for a full minute, aware of how much it meant to her, admitting that the hole left by his absence was enormous. She sliced open the envelope with a silver knife. She read,

  Dearest Renee,

  It’s been a heck of a time. Abe’ll tell you I had some luck gambling in Denver, sent him a draft. I guess you all have done something about Spot by now. He saved me in the shoot-out no matter what he says. I missed Buntline here and am following him to Helena, Montana, where he might be in big trouble before I get there. Met a couple fine gents here in a scrape after Buntline’s bum show in Niblo’s Garden. One’s named Bennett, who owns the New York Herald. The other’s a real nice man named Merrivale.