by Matt Braun
“Why so?”
“A day more or less won’t matter. We might do well to check out a few headstones—down in Pueblo.”
“What’s in Pueblo?”
“That’s where I killed Dutch Henry.”
The shadow of a question clouded Butch’s eyes. “Am I going deaf, or did you say ‘we’?”
“Why not?” Starbuck commented. “That way there’s no loose ends. You’ll be able to give Mike the whole story.”
“Suits me,” Butch said with an impish grin. “I don’t get much chance to work the right side of the law.”
“Tell you what.” Starbuck hesitated, considering. “Go downstairs and see the desk clerk. Have him fix you up with a room, and tell him I said to put it on my bill.”
“Say, thanks a lot, Luke!”
“I’ll roust you out about sunup.”
“Sunup!” Butch rolled his eyes. “Why so early?”
“The train for Pueblo leaves at seven.”
“You know, I got an idea rustlin’ cows beats the whey outta this detective business.”
Starbuck laughed and showed him to the door. Walking back to the sitting room, he stopped and stood for a moment, lost in concentration. Lola bounced off the sofa and moved to join him. Her eyes suddenly shone and she mimicked his dour expression. She slipped inside his arms.
“No more detective business tonight!”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!” she said with a bawdy wink. “We’ve got some business ourselves. Unfinished business!”
“Well—” Starbuck playfully swatted her rump. “Never leave a job half done. That’s my motto!”
Lola purred and led him toward the bedroom. Her look was one of smoky sensuality, and she shed the peignoir as they went through the door. Her bare white bottom blink-blinked like a beacon in the night. Starbuck went willingly.
Chapter Fourteen
His gaze was drawn to the outhouse. The door was shut and the latch bar firmly in place. But the latchstring stopped swaying even as he watched. Someone was in the outhouse.
Starbuck suddenly whirled, leveling the Colt, and drilled a hole through the outhouse door. Thumbing the hammer back, he drew a steady bead on the door, then called out in a hard voice.
“Dutch Henry, you got a choice. Come out with your hands up, or I’ll turn that privy into a sieve.”
“Hold off, Starbuck! I’m comin’ out, you win!”
The latch bar lifted and the door cracked open. Horn stood in a spill of sunlight, his arms raised above the doorsill. He blinked, watching Starbuck with a sardonic expression.
“You’re a regular bulldog once you get started, aren’t you?”
“Toss your gun out of there, Dutch! Slow and easy, nothin’ fancy.”
“I laid it on the seat before I opened the door.”
“Then lower your hands—one at a time!—and you’d better come up empty.”
“Hell, I know when I’m licked.” Horn lowered his left hand, palm upraised. “See, no tricks and no—”
His right arm dropped in a flash of metal. Starbuck triggered three quick shots. The slugs stitched a neat row straight up Horn’s shirtfront, bright red dots from belly to brisket. Knocked off his feet by the impact, Horn crashed into the back wall of the privy, then sat down on the one-holer. A pistol fell from his hand, and his head tilted at an angle across one shoulder. His eyes were opaque and lusterless, staring at nothing.
Starbuck walked forward and halted at the door. He lowered the hammer on his Colt, gazing down on the dead man. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he slowly shook his head.
“You should’ve known better, Dutch. You sure should’ve.”
The memory echoed distantly, as though carried to him through the corridors of time. He stared out the window, watching as the train pulled into Pueblo. He saw the town had changed little in seven years, and wondered if anyone still remembered Dutch Henry Horn.
Or the young range detective who had killed him.
The train ground to a halt outside the depot. Starbuck and Butch were the first passengers off the lead coach. They stepped onto the platform and hurried toward the end of the stationhouse. The night train for Denver departed at six, and Starbuck planned to be aboard. He thought an afternoon would suffice for what he had in mind.
Walking uptown, Starbuck experienced a strong sense of déjà vu. The sleepy main street was much as he recalled it, and Pueblo itself had grown hardly at all in the intervening years. The hotel still occupied one corner of the main intersection, and catty-corner across from it was the bank. The afternoon was blistering hot, and it required no effort of will to transport himself backward in time. He saw it all as though it had happened yesterday.
The summer of 1876 he had tracked Dutch Henry Horn to Pueblo. There the trail vanished, but he had reason to believe Horn was hiding out in the surrounding countryside. He took a room at the hotel, confident the outlaw would show up in town. His wait lasted nearly a month; his days were spent on the hotel veranda, where he kept a lookout on the intersection. Finally, when he’d all but lost hope, his patience paid off. Dutch Henry, accompanied by two men, rode past the hotel. Suspecting nothing, they dismounted outside the bank.
Starbuck hurried to a nearby hardware store and bought a shotgun. Then, as the men exited the bank, he challenged them in the street. He killed Horn’s companions in the ensuing shootout, but the outlaw ducked around the corner and fled on foot. The chase ended across town, behind an adobe cantina. There he cornered Horn in an outhouse, and killed his third man in less than ten minutes. He was duly arrested, and only then did he discover that Horn was known locally as Frank Miller. Operating under an alias, the outlaw had purchased a ranch outside town and established himself as a cattleman. He was widely respected, and the citizens of Pueblo cared little that his true occupation was as the ringleader of a gang of horse thieves. Starbuck had escaped town one jump ahead of a lynch mob.
Today, walking along the street, Starbuck recalled the incident as the turning point in his life. The assignment had been his first job as a range detective. From there, with his reputation made, he’d gone on to other cases and wider renown. That long-ago afternoon had truly been a milestone, and he saw it now with a note of irony. The death of Dutch Henry Horn had put him in the detective business to stay.
In a sense, he owed Dutch Henry a debt of gratitude. Or perhaps it was owed to Dutch Henry’s ghost, and the time of reckoning had at last come around. Someone seemed determined to collect on the debt, and collect in kind. An eye for an eye and a pound of flesh, the account settled in blood. Vengeance was the purest of all motives, and by far the most sinister. Starbuck had known men to wait longer than seven years, and their revenge was no less sweet for the wait. He wondered again what Ira Lloyd was to Dutch Henry Horn.
At the courthouse, Starbuck went directly to the county clerk’s office. His request to inspect certain backdated records was met with studied reluctance. The clerk finally acceded, and with Butch in tow, he was led to a storage room. The shelves were stacked with musty ledgers dating back to Civil War times. Left alone, he and Butch dug around until they located the tax rolls for 1876. Under the name Frank Miller, they found no indication of family or survivors. Their next try was the probate files, and all their suspicions were at last confirmed. Frank Miller had an heir—a son.
The records established that one James Miller had inherited the entire estate. As the sole heir, his legacy consisted of the Diamond X Ranch and several thousand head of cattle, certain parcels of town real estate, and some $40,000 on deposit at the bank. For tax purposes, the estate had been assessed at $212,000 and so entered on the county rolls.
A further search of probate-court records provided corroboration of James Miller’s parentage. In his last will and testament, Dutch Henry Horn had used the alias Frank Miller. Following his death, and the subsequent publicity, his true identity had become public knowledge. The court ruled that the father’s sins in no way jeopardiz
ed the son’s right of inheritance. Dutch Henry Horn’s estate was legally unencumbered, and judged to be wholly apart from his criminal activities. James Miller, twenty-one at the time, was awarded uncontested title to all lands and property.
His true name, duly noted in the court record, was James T. Horn.
Starbuck’s immediate concern centered on James Horn’s present whereabouts. It was entirely possible he still owned the Diamond X Ranch. In that event, he might be easier located than originally thought. Still, whether in Deadwood or Pueblo, one thing was abundantly clear.
Ira Lloyd was James Miller, otherwise known as James Horn.
After weighing the situation, Starbuck decided to play it close to the vest. He needed information about James Horn; assuming the man was to be found at the ranch, there was every likelihood it would bloodshed. Yet he had no wish to risk another lynch mob in Pueblo. Wary of alerting the county clerk, who looked to be a gadfly, he made no further inquiry. He determined, instead, to try another tack.
Outside the clerk’s office, Starbuck huddled briefly with Butch. He intended to pay a call on the sheriff, and he thought the conversation would best be conducted in privacy. There was, moreover, some slim chance the youngster might be recognized, and he saw no reason to tempt fate. He sent Butch to wait for him on the courthouse steps. Then he walked down the hall to a door marked SHERIFF, PUEBLO COUNTY. He entered without knocking.
The man seated at the desk was lean and muscular, with weather-beaten features and a soup-strainer mustache. His gestures were restrained, his manner brisk and businesslike. He greeted Starbuck in a deep baritone voice.
“Help you?”
“Hope so.” Starbuck smiled affably and stuck out his hand. “I’m Luke Starbuck.”
“Ernie Tucker.” The lawman’s handshake was firm and his appraisal swift. “You the detective fellow, works out of Denver?”
“You got me dead to rights, Sheriff.”
“Thought so,” Tucker said evenly. “I was a deputy when you caused that little rhubarb a few years back.”
Starbuck stared at him. “In that case, you’ll recall I was only doing my job.”
“Never said you wasn’t.” Tucker smiled, waved him to a chair. “I always figured it was good riddance to bad rubbish. Course, some folks around here don’t agree.”
“Yeah,” Starbuck said, seating himself. “They’re probably the same ones who wanted to stretch my neck.”
“Say, that’s right!” Tucker boomed. “Ol’ Walt Johnson saved you from a lynching bee!”
“Johnson still the town marshal?”
“No more.” Tucker’s smile faded. “He got turned out to pasture the year after you killed Frank Miller.”
“Too bad,” Starbuck said tonelessly. “He was a good lawman.”
“Like I said, some folks have got long memories.”
“So I’ve learned … the hard way.”
Tucker ruffled his brow, watchful. “What brings you to Pueblo?”
“Frank Miller.” Starbuck’s expression was stoic. “Or as he was better known—Dutch Henry Horn.”
“That’s water under the bridge, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it was,” Starbuck agreed. “Till somebody started trying to kill me.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“There’s been three attempts on my life in the last month. I have reason to believe the man behind it is Dutch Henry’s son—James Horn.”
“Not very likely,” Tucker observed. “Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him since he sold out.”
“Sold out?” Starbuck’s gaze narrowed. “Are you talking about the ranch?”
“Everything,” Tucker said, gesturing out the window. “Town property and the ranch, the whole ball of wax. He showed up a week or so after his daddy was buried. Quick as the deeds were transferred, he put everything on the auction block. Walked away with a potful of money—a big potful!”
“How long was he here?”
“A month, maybe a little more.”
“That’s fast work, considering he was barely grown.”
“Well, there weren’t any flies on him! No, sir, he was smart as a whip. Got top dollar for the whole shebang!”
“Where’d he come from?”
“Back east somewhere,” Tucker said, with mild wonder. “Turned out Miller—Horn—had sent him off to college. Hell, you could’ve knocked half the town over with a feather! Nobody even knew Horn had a son.”
“What was he like?”
“Quiet, but not snooty or nothing. Course, you could tell he was educated! The minute he opened his mouth there wasn’t no doubt on that score.”
“Did he look anything like Dutch Henry?”
“Did he ever!” Tucker laughed. “It was downright spooky! Tall and thick through the shoulders, that same tight-lipped look around the mouth. Had his daddy’s eyes too—chalk blue. Queerest eyes I ever saw on a man.”
“When he left here,” Starbuck inquired easily, “where’d he go?”
“Nobody knows.” Tucker shrugged. “The day he sold the last piece of property, he went down to the bank and got himself a draft for the whole bundle. Then he climbed on the train and took off without a by-your-leave. Nobody knew he was gone till he’d already done it!”
“Any word of him since?”
“Not a peep,” Tucker said, shaking his head. “I always figured he went back east. That’s what I would’ve done in his place.”
“Why?”
“Well—” Tucker spread his hands. “What with his daddy being a horse thief and all, that would’ve been the natural thing to do. A young fellow wouldn’t want a thing like that hanging over his head.”
“How’d he feel about the way Dutch Henry died?”
Tucker leaned back in his chair, hands steepled, tapped his forefingers together. “What you’re really asking is how he felt about you killing Dutch Henry?”
“That’s close to the mark.”
“I never heard him say,” Tucker ventured. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. I don’t think he harbored a grudge and I don’t think he’d come looking for you. He just didn’t seem like the type.”
“Well, Sheriff,” Starbuck said, rising to his feet, “somebody’s looking for me and he’s working at it full time.”
Tucker eyed him with a shrewd look. “You aim to kill him, don’t you?”
“I don’t aim to let him kill me.”
“For my money, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Starbuck nodded and walked to the door. He stepped into the hall and proceeded toward the front of the courthouse. His eyes were grim, fixed straight ahead. He thought it time to put Pueblo behind him.
He’d found his ghost.
The night was pitch dark. Cinders and sparks from the engine whistled past the coach like tiny meteors. The car lights were turned low and nearly all the passengers were asleep. A rhythmic clackety-clack of wheels on steel rails punctuated the stillness.
Starbuck was staring out the window. His expression was abstracted and faraway. He’d been sitting quietly for a long while, lost in inner deliberation.
The puzzle, fitted together piece by piece, was now almost whole. In his mind’s eye, he saw a vivid mosaic of where he’d been and where he was headed. Only one small part still remained out of focus and somewhat incomplete. Yet he wasn’t worried, for the answer awaited him in Deadwood and he knew who to ask. A man there was in his debt.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
His preoccupation was broken by Butch’s voice. He turned and found the youngster watching him with a sober gaze. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, smiled.
“Save your penny and take a guess.”
“Deadwood?”
“Yeah, that and young Mr. Horn.”
“You reckon you’ll be able to find him? He’s a regular wizard at coverin’ his tracks.”
Starbuck’s eyes took on a distant, prophetic lo
ok. “I’ll find him.”
“Wonder what he’s like?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I guess I’ve been doing a little woolgatherin’ myself. Hard to figure a man like Horn.”
“How so?”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing!” Butch cocked his head in a funny smile. “If I had me a college education and all that money, I sure wouldn’t be running around killin’ people. Nosireebob!”
“What would you be doing instead?”
“For openers, I would’ve kept the Diamond X.”
“Dutch Henry’s ranch?” Starbuck was surprised. “Operating a cattle spread’s no picnic. It’s a hard life.”
“You’re telling me!”. Butch laughed. “I was raised up on a farm, and when I got big enough, I hired on as a cowhand. Hard work and me ain’t exactly strangers!”
“Where was this?”
Butch gave him a quick, guarded glance. “Utah.” “You got folks there?”
“Maybe.”
“Forget I asked,” Starbuck said amiably. “I wasn’t trying to poke around in your personal business.”
“Well—” Butch squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t suppose it’d hurt nothin’. Anybody Mike trusts is okay in my book.”
“Wouldn’t go any further,” Starbuck promised him. “I was just interested, that’s all. A man don’t meet many rustlers your age.”
Butch’s story was a familiar one on the frontier. His parents, Max and Ann Parker, homesteaded a quarter section in southern Utah. Devout Mormons, they sowed their fields and prayed to a benevolent God for a rich harvest. All they reaped was misfortune; three straight years of drought left the crops withered and the land parched. The Parkers lost their homestead, and turned to other work to keep food on the table. Max hired out as a teamster, hauling timber, and Ann found employment at a dairy. Times were rough and the Parkers struggled to eke out an existence.
Their eldest son, Robert LeRoy Parker, was one of six children. Only fourteen at the time, the boy went to work on a neighboring ranch to supplement the family income. He was inexperienced, somewhat impressionable, and he quickly fell in with a drifter named Mike Cassidy. Posing as a saddle tramp, Cassidy was actually engaged in stealing cattle and trailing them to ready markets in the Colorado mining camps. To young Roy, the rustler offered a life of excitement and an escape from drudgery. The law soon tumbled to their scheme, and they took off for Robbers Roost. There, fully committed to riding the owlhoot, the youngster adopted his mentor’s name. He assumed the alias Butch Cassidy.
