by Matt Braun
Andrew Reed, the bank president, was portly and urbane, with foxy eyes and bone-china teeth. He was a high priest of Denver society, and a man of such vanity that he knelt only before mirrors. He looked up as Starbuck pushed through the swinging door of the balustrade and approached his desk. His greeting was civil but cool.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Starbuck.”
“Afternoon.” Starbuck handed him the court order. “As you’ll see, that authorizes me to inspect the bank records of William Dexter.”
“Highly irregular!” Reed squinted owlishly, rapidly scanning the paper. “May I inquire your purpose?”
“Confidential,” Starbuck said vaguely. “But just between us, there’s some hitch in getting Dexter’s will probated.”
“Indeed?” Reed spread his hands in a bland gesture. “I presume you are representing the widow?”
Starbuck shrugged off the question. “Hope there won’t be any problem having a look at the records.”
“Perish the thought!” Reed smiled dutifully. “The First National always honors a lawful request.”
“Judge Peters told me you were a man of high principle.”
“We all serve the public, Mr. Starbuck. Indeed we do!”
Reed summoned the head teller and issued instructions. Starbuck was then led along a corridor and into a back room filled with filing cabinets. He asked to see William Dexter’s records for the last three years. A clerk went through the files, and returned with three enormous ledgers. Seated at a table, Starbuck began with the ledger marked 1879. He soon struck paydirt.
Beginning the summer of 1879, a draft from the Grubstake Mining Company had been deposited to William Dexter’s business account on the first of each month. Leafing through the ledgers, Starbuck discovered the practice had continued month by month, without interruption. The amounts were sizable and grew progressively larger, indicating the mine had prospered. Then, only a month ago, the deposits had abruptly ceased. The date coincided with the closing of the mine.
There were hundreds of entries in the ledgers, covering Dexter’s transactions in myriad business ventures. The sheer volume of it left Starbuck bleary-eyed, and his concentration on the mine almost cost him a vital clue. Then, so suddenly it took his breath away, he tumbled to a pattern. On the first of each month the Grubstake Mining draft had been credited to the account. On the fifth of each month a draft had been drawn and debited against the account. The practice had been regularly followed, month after month, and the tipoff was a simple matter of calculation. The debits—to the penny—were ten percent less than the amount of the Grubstake deposits.
The conclusion was inescapable. William Dexter, functioning as a front man, had taken ten percent off the top for overseeing the Grubstake operation. Those monthly drafts for the balance were clearly earmarked for the lawyer’s silent partner. The entries in the ledgers showed the drafts were always made to the order of the same firm, in the same location. The Black Hills Land Company. Deadwood, Dakota Territory.
Starbuck knew where to look for Ira Lloyd.
Chapter Thirteen
They were naked. The night was warm and modesty unnecessary. Stretched out on the bed, a tangle of arms and legs, their breath grew shorter. He kissed the nape of her neck, and they silently caressed and fondled. He cupped one of her breasts and the nipple swelled erect. She moaned, exhaled a hoarse, whimpering cry. Then his hand slowly slid down her stomach and went lower still until she shuddered convulsively.
“Oh Luke,” she gasped in his ear. “Oooo—”
A knock sounded at the door. Starbuck raised himself up on one elbow, his head turned toward the sitting room. She pulled him back down in a fierce embrace. Her voice was furry and passionate.
“Forget it!” she whispered urgently. “They’ll go away!”
The knock turned to a hammered pounding. Starbuck kissed the tip of her nose and gently disengaged himself from her arms. He rolled out of bed and moved to the wardrobe.
“Jeezus Christ!” Lola cursed furiously. “What a sense of timing!”
“Won’t take long,” Starbuck grumbled. “I’ll send the bastard packing!”
“Watch yourself, lover!” Lola cautioned, suddenly wary. “One beating gives a man’s face character. No need to overdo a good thing!”
“You’ve got my vote on that.”
Starbuck hastily slipped into shirt and pants. He took the Colt from beneath his pillow and walked to the bedroom door. The pounding grew louder as he padded barefoot across the sitting room. He hurried the last few steps through the foyer.
“Hold your horses!” he yelled. “I hear you!”
The Colt at waist level, he cautiously flattened himself against the wall. Then he cracked open the door and took a quick peek. A look of astounded disbelief swept his features.
“Butch!”
“Howdy, Arapahoe!” Butch grinned. “Bet you wasn’t expectin’ me.”
“I sure as the devil wasn’t!” Starbuck opened the door wider. “How the hell’d you find me, anyway?”
“Asked around.” Butch sauntered into the foyer. “Finally got a line on you from a barkeep in some dive.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Cheyenne,” Butch replied absently. “I left my horse there and caught a train. Got in a couple of hours ago.”
“Well—” Starbuck closed the door, still bemused. “C’mon in and tell me about it. What’s up?”
Butch stopped just inside the entranceway. He stood for a moment eyeballing the sitting room, and his grin dissolved into a look of wonder. He tilted his hat back on his head, whistled softly.
“Holy cow!” he muttered. “You got yourself some digs!”
“Nothing much.” Starbuck motioned him to a chair. “Take a load off your feet and give me the lowdown.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Butch dropped into an easy chair, and suddenly noticed his bare feet. “Sorry I woke you up, Luke. What I got to say wouldn’t keep till morning.”
Starbuck flicked a glance toward the bedroom door, then shrugged. He saw the bulge of a sixgun beneath the youngster’s jacket, carried on the off side and jammed into the waistband. The pistol was no surprise, but the kid materializing out of the night was like a dash of ice water. He laid his Colt on the coffee table and took a seat on the sofa.
“What’s so important you’d risk coming to Denver?”
“Aww, I’m safe enough,” Butch said confidently. “No dodgers out on a little fish like me. Course, the same don’t hold true for Mike! That’s why he asked me to come in his place.”
“Mike sent you?” Starbuck asked, confounded. “All the way from Hole-in-the-Wall?”
“Well, don’t you see, he wasn’t sure whether you’d settled matters up in Butte. How’d things work out?”
“I was a day late and a dollar short. No sign of our friend.”
“Then my trip wasn’t wasted! Mike figured we’d be better off safe than sorry.”
“You still haven’t told me why?”
“Got a message for you,” Butch replied. “Mike says—”
Lola appeared in the bedroom door. Her hair hung loose and she was wrapped in a filmy peignoir. The sheer fabric accentuated her full breasts and the curve of her hips. She glided into the room and struck a provocative pose beside the sofa.
“Who’s your friend, lover?”
Starbuck was amused by her dramatic entrance, and her choice of costume. His arm moved in an idle gesture. “Lola Montana, meet Butch Cassidy.”
“Hello, Butch,” Lola purred. “Any friend of Luke’s is a friend of mine.”
Butch swept off his hat and bounded to his feet. His mouth sagged open and he ogled her with a look of slack-jawed amazement. He seemed to have lost his voice.
“What’s the matter, honey?” Lola flashed a theatrical smile. “Cat got your tongue?”
“No, ma’am!” Butch sputtered. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Ma’am?” Lola uttered a low, throaty la
ugh. “God, I must be losing my touch!”
“No, ma’am!” Butch twisted his hat into knots. “I mean—no offense, ma’am—you ain’t lost nothin’!”
“That’s sweet! I think I’m going to like you, Butch.”
Lola fluttered her lashes and sized him up with a quick once-over. Her immediate impression was of a young ruffian fresh off a cattle drive. He smelled of horses and leather, and distant familiarity with a bathtub. Yet, beneath the dithering and callow manner, there was the sense of a kid aged beyond his years. She wondered what business he had with a manhunter.
“Lookee here now, Luke!” Butch blushed beet red, took a step toward the door. “I’m sorry as all get-out! Wouldn’t’ve busted in here if I knowed you had … company.”
“Simmer down,” Starbuck said genially. “You’re not interrupting anything that won’t keep.”
“Why, of course not!” Lola trilled. “We were just sitting around chewing the fat!”
Starbuck caught the mockery in her eyes, and chuckled softly. “Lola’s a good sport, Butch. She knows it’s business before pleasure with me.”
“You’re sure?” Butch glanced from one to the other. “I ain’t all that wet behind the ears. You just say the word and I’ll get lost!”
“Stick around,” Lola said with a sigh of resignation. “I’ll just make myself scarce and let you boys get on with your talk. I don’t mind.”
Starbuck made a spur-of-the-moment decision. In all the time he’d known her, Lola had never once pried into his business affairs. She respected his privacy with grace and with no hint of resentment. Yet, at times, he sensed she was hurt by his cynical distrust, which until now had included her. The thought suddenly occurred that she deserved better. He decided to give it a try.
“You stick around, too.” He patted the sofa. “Have a seat, and let’s hear what Butch has to say. He’s come a long way to say it.”
Lola felt her heart skip a beat. She realized their relationship—at that very instant—had undergone a change. Tonight, for the first time, he was extending his trust. She knew she’d passed a critical test, and sensed they were now something more than lovers. She promised herself he would never regret the decision.
When she was seated, Starbuck turned his attention to Butch. “You said you’ve got a message?”
“Yeah, I do.” Butch resumed his chair. “Mike wasn’t sure whether it meant anything, but he sent me along all the same. He figured you ought to judge for yourself.”
“Go on.”
“Well, he got to doing some powerful thinking after you left Hole-in-the-Wall. He wouldn’t admit it, but the two of you being set up by this Ira Lloyd must’ve thrown him for a loop. Anyway, he remembered something he’d all but forgot.”
“About Dutch Henry Horn?”
“For a fact,” Butch said, suddenly solemn. “Dutch Henry was a widower.”
“I’ll be damned!” Starbuck was momentarily nonplussed. “I never heard anything about Dutch Henry being married.”
“Nobody else, either,” Butch noted. “Mike said she was some sort of big, dark secret. When him and Dutch Henry rode together, none of the rest of the gang knowed about her. Only reason he told Mike was because they were partners.”
“Where did she live?”
“Outside Fort Worth a ways. Dutch Henry had a farm he used for a cover.”
“Did Mike ever meet her?”
“Nope.” Butch shook his head. “He never had no reason to go there, and he wasn’t invited.”
“When was she supposed to have died?”
“Near as Mike recollects, it was about a year before him and Dutch Henry parted company. So that would’ve made it sometime late summer of ’74.”
“If Mike never saw her or the farm”—Starbuck fixed him with a stern look—“then how come he’s so sure she actually died?”
“He asked himself the same question,” Butch admitted. “There for a while he even toyed with the notion that Ira Lloyd might turn out to be Horn’s wife. If she hadn’t died, it could’ve been her tryin’ to kill you both with one stone.”
“What changed his mind?”
“Like I said,” Butch reminded him, “Mike give it a lot of thought. He remembered Dutch Henry was busted up something terrible when it happened. So, all things considered, he figures it was on the up and up.”
“But he still doesn’t know—not for certain.”
“No,” Butch conceded. “Not for certain.”
Starbuck nodded and was silent, thoughtful. When he looked up, there was a strange expression in his eyes. “Something else occurs to me.”
“What’s that?”
“As I recall, Dutch Henry was in his late thirties when I killed him.”
Lola started with an involuntary gasp. It was the first and only time he’d ever referred to the darker side of his work. Starbuck and Butch glanced at her, and she smiled sheepishly. Then Butch picked up the thread of the conversation.
“I got an idea you’re onto the same thing Mike was thinkin’.”
“It makes sense,” Starbuck said quite seriously. “A man that old—and married—it’s just natural he’d have some kids. Add seven years and they’d be grown by now.”
“Grown and chock-full of hate for the man that killed their daddy.”
“Don’t forget Mike,” Starbuck amended. “He winged Dutch Henry in a shootout. That would explain why somebody put us at each other’s throats.”
“Them was Mike’s words exactly.”
“I’d say it’s the best bet yet.”
“Only one trouble,” Butch said glumly. “We don’t know where to lay our hands on Ira Lloyd. We don’t even know if he’s a him or a her!”
“Things turned around today,” Starbuck informed him. “I got my first solid lead since this whole mess started. It’s a pip, too!”
Butch’s eyes lit up like soapy agates. “You know who Lloyd is?”
“No, not just exactly,” Starbuck remarked. “But I’ve got a damn good idea where to find him.”
“Where?”
“Deadwood.”
“Dakota Territory?”
“Let me catch you up on what’s happened.”
Starbuck briefly recounted everything that had occurred since he’d departed Hole-in-the-Wall. He told of the shooting at Cheever’s Flats, and how he’d eventually identified the dead man as George Horwell. Then he detailed his investigation of the Grubstake mine and his conversation with the sheriff in Butte. All of which, he noted wryly, had led him step by step into a dead end. From there, he outlined the return to Denver and the salient factors in William Dexter’s murder. He went on to relate what he’d learned from Dexter’s secretary and Chief Kelsey. Finally, he explained the discovery he’d made while sifting through the bank records. Though it was a paper trail, the ledgers had left him convinced on one point. Ira Lloyd was somehow connected with the Black Hills Land Company.
“So Deadwood’s the place to look,” he concluded. “Our man’s headquartered there—whatever name he goes by.”
“I dunno,” Butch said skeptically. “Them ledgers don’t exactly prove it’s Lloyd. Sounds like Dexter had so many irons in the fire it’d be hard to tell one way or the other.”
“There’s more to it than that.” Starbuck paused, and the timbre of his voice changed. “Late yesterday I went back and had another talk with Dexter’s secretary. He let slip a real curious item.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Dexter only left Denver twice a year on business.”
“Where’d he go?”
“That’s the curious part.” Starbuck pondered a moment, and then, almost as though he were thinking out loud, he went on. “Dexter never told anyone where he was headed. According to his secretary, it was all hush-hush and top-drawer secret.”
“So you drew another blank?”
“No,” Starbuck elaborated. “I went to the train station and questioned the ticket agents. Things got curiouser and curiouser once I
jiggled their memory.”
“You did it!” Butch whooped wildly. “You found out where Dexter went on those trips!”
“Yankton.” Starbuck’s pale eyes glittered, and a wide grin spread across his face. “Dakota Territory.”
“Yankton?” Butch appeared bewildered. “I thought you said Lloyd’s headquarters was in Deadwood.”
“Yankton’s the territorial capital. The train line from the east ends there, and Cheyenne’s the closest railhead to the west. The last leg of the trip to Dead-wood—whatever direction you’re coming from—has to be made by stagecoach.”
“Are you saying Dexter went on by stage to Deadwood?”
“Maybe,” Starbuck mused. “On the other hand, Deadwood’s a little rough for a city slicker like Dexter. I’m willing to bet him and Lloyd got their heads together in Yankton. It figures he’d deliver a report on the Grubstake operation at least twice a year.”
“Why, sure!” Butch said, suddenly grasping it. “If he was headed for Deadwood, why go the long way around through Yankton?”
“Exactly,” Starbuck affirmed. “The shorter way would’ve been Cheyenne, and on from there by stage. He’d have saved a couple of days in both directions.”
“By golly, that pretty well nails it down!”
“One other thing.” Starbuck’s expression turned sober, somehow pensive. “Dexter was killed with a thirty-two. That’s a gentleman’s gun and I’ve got a strong suspicion Lloyd did the job himself.”
“You mean he was here in Denver?”
“I doubt he would’ve trusted the job to a hired hand. Not to mention the files on the Grubstake and the missing page out of Dexter’s ledger. He had to get it right the first time—no mistakes.”
“Well, a thirty-two might be a gentleman’s gun, but he sure don’t act like one. Not the way he kills people.”
Starbuck’s jawline tightened. “His killing days are about to stop.”
Butch gave him a quick, intent look. “You’re headed for Deadwood, aren’t you?”
“I was.” Starbuck pulled at his ear, reflective. “Figured to leave tomorrow morning. But I think I just changed my mind.”
