by Matt Braun
Early the next morning Starbuck left his hotel and walked toward Gold Street. His mood was somber, and he scarcely noticed passersby as he reflected on the problem at hand. He was absorbed with thoughts of mortality.
Outside the land company he paused and squared his shoulders. Then he opened the door and entered with a determined stride. He halted in the outer office, assessing the situation at a glance. Several clerks were seated at their desks, and three partitioned cubicles were ranged along the front wall. The men inside the cubbyholes were quickly identified as the managers of Horn’s various enterprises. He grinned broadly and nodded to the nearest clerk.
“I’d like to see Mr. Eastlake.”
“Oh?” The clerk gave his tinhorn attire and the eyepatch a swift once-over. “Is he expecting you, Mr.—?”
“Ace Pardee,” Starbuck replied jovially. “Your boss told me to drop around anytime.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll just inform—”
“No need for ceremony! I’ll announce myself.”
Starbuck laughed with hearty good cheer. Before the clerk could move, he quickly crossed the room to the unmarked door. Throwing it open, he plastered a wide smile on his face and stepped into Horn’s office.
“Hullo there, Mr. Eastlake!”
Horn jumped, shoving away from his desk. He rose partway out of his chair, then resumed his seat as Starbuck closed the door. His features took on a guarded look.
“How was Yankton, Mr. Pardee?”
“Broke the game!” Starbuck said ebulliently. “Walked away with all the marbles and then some!”
“Congratulations.” Horn’s face was blank, his eyes opaque. “What can I do for you?”
“Thought we might talk a little business.”
Horn stared at him. “Business?”
“Political business.” Starbuck lowered himself into one of the wing chairs, pulled out a cheroot. “Turns out we’ve got some mutual acquaintances.”
“I see.” Horn regarded him thoughtfully. “Are you referring to the poker game in Yankton … the legislators you trimmed?”
“Nope.” Starbuck lit up and puffed a cottony wad of smoke. “I was thinking of Nehemiah Ordway.”
“Ordway?” Horn stiffened, fully alert. “What interest do you have in the governor?”
“Well, for openers”—Starbuck studied the tip of his cigar—“you and him swill at the same trough.”
Horn sat perfectly still. “I suggest you explain yourself, Mr. Pardee.”
“All in good time.” Starbuck casually flicked an ash onto the carpet. “I learned something else while I was in Yankton.”
“I warn you, Mr. Pardee!” Horn’s features set in a grim scowl. “I don’t like being toyed with.”
“Why, perish the thought!” Starbuck said smoothly. “I just figured you’d want to know everything I know.”
“Very well.” Horn folded his hands, eased back in his chair. “I’m listening.”
“The Dakota Hotel,” Starbuck observed. “The one you stayed at in Yankton? I bribed the night clerk.”
“I fail to see your point.”
“Oh, it’s a doozy! He let me have a gander at the hotel register. A few months ago—early May, to be exact—you and William Dexter were there at the same time.”
“Dexter?” Horn seemed turned to stone. “I’m not familiar with the name.”
Starbuck laughed in his face, “Suppose I jiggle your memory! There are bank records in Denver that tie you to Dexter. Once a month, he transferred funds from the Grubstake mine to the Black Hills Land Company. Get the picture now?”
“Go on.”
“You killed Dexter, and you cleaned out his office files. But you overlooked the bank, and that’s where I made the connection. Dexter was your number-one errand boy.”
Horn’s mouth clamped in a bloodless line. “Who are you?”
“Starbuck.” A slow, dark smile creased Starbuck’s features. “Luke Starbuck.”
“I—” Horn paused, jolted into sudden awareness. “I thought it was you, that day on the stage. You’re to be commended, Mr. Starbuck. You fooled me completely.”
“That makes us even,” Starbuck said with a note of irony. “You had me fooled from the day Dexter hired me.”
“Hired you?” Horn said a bit too quickly. “I know nothing of any such arrangement.”
“Come off it!” Starbuck brushed aside the objection. “You did your damnedest to get me killed. I can quote it to you chapter and verse! Mike Cassidy and Hole-in-the-Wall, the smoke screen in Butte. You name it and I’ve got the goods.”
“Indeed?” Horn tensed, his expression watchful. “Why would I want to have you killed?”
“You’re James Horn,” Starbuck said with a clenched smile. “Your father was.Dutch Henry Horn. Want me to go on?”
“I’m impressed, Mr. Starbuck. Your reputation as a detective apparently has some basis in fact.”
“What’s a fact,” Starbuck said firmly, “is that I’ve got you by the short hairs.”
“I think not,” Horn countered. “There’s nothing to connect me to Dexter’s death, and no proof I attempted to have you killed. In case you’ve forgotten, you shot all the witnesses, Mr. Starbuck.”
“You’re a little slow,” Starbuck pointed out. “I’m talking about politics, not murder.”
“Oh, yes!” Horn gave him a quizzical look. “You did mention the governor, didn’t you?”
“The governor and graft payoffs, and a wholesale market in patronage.”
“Would you care to be more specific?”
“Ordway has seven newspapers—including the Deadwood Sentinel—locked into a conspiracy. They all dance to his tune.”
“I doubt it seriously.”
“He also controls every county commissioner in the territory. And they all paid through the nose before he’d confirm their appointment.”
“Unfounded rumors!” Horn advised loftily. “No one would believe a word of it!”
“Yeah, they will,” Starbuck said with conviction. “I sort of accidentally-on-purpose stumbled across the proof.”
“How interesting,” Horn replied with cold hauteur. “Exactly what does that have to do with me, Mr. Starbuck?”
“I mentioned graft payoffs a minute ago.”
“And?”
“You’re the bagman for Deadwood.”
“Absurd!” Horn announced. “A total fabrication!”
“Wanna bet?” Starbuck’s eyes hooded. “I cracked your safe last night.”
Horn’s face went chalky. “You’re lying!”
“Wrong again,” Starbuck said woodenly. “I got the affidavits and the ledger that shows the split between you and Ordway on the graft. It’s all I need to send you up for ten, maybe twenty years.”
“I still say you’re bluffing!”
“One way to find out.” Starbuck motioned toward the safe. “The combination is left 5—right 12—left 55.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Horn rose from his chair and crossed the room. He approached the safe in the manner of a condemned man mounting the gallows. Dropping to one knee, he quickly spun the combination knob and heaved open the doors. A brief search of the storage compartment convinced him the affidavits and the ledger were missing. All the color drained from his face and his eyes dulled, appeared to turn inward. His head felt queer, almost as though his eardrums were blocked, and his brow glistened with beads of sweat. Finally, with his back still to Starbuck, he bowed his head and placed one hand on the lower shelf. His voice was shaky.
“Why haven’t you gone to Bullock? You have the proof.”
“I was tempted to do that very thing. Then, on second thought, I figured the marshal could wait.”
“Don’t mock me!” Horn said sharply. “Why are you here?”
“Guess.”
“You intend to kill me, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do,” Starbuck said simply. “I reckon I wouldn’t sleep nights … even with you in prison.”
“I’ll chance it.”
Horn could scarcely mistake the finality of the statement. The death knell had sounded, and he was a doomed man. It flashed through his mind that he had nothing to lose. He could submit and die on his knees. Or he could try and yet live.
His hand brushed past the stacks of money and clutched the hidden revolver. He twisted around, still on one knee. He awkwardly banged his arm on the door of the safe, almost lost his balance. Then a look of stark terror suddenly crossed his features. He froze.
Starbuck was on his feet, waiting. The Colt sixgun was extended at arm’s length, and there was a metallic whir as he thumbed the hammer. An instant of tomblike stillness slipped past while they stared at each other. Then he smiled and fired.
The slug drilled through Horn’s forehead. The top of his skull exploded, blown off in a misty spray of brains and gore. He toppled over, driven backward by the impact, and fell wedged inside the safe. One leg kicked, his bootheel drumming the floor in afterdeath. His eyes rolled upward, then a wheezing rattle escaped his throat and he lay still.
Starbuck felt nothing. The man had tried repeatedly to kill him, and would have tried again. Whatever else he was, the son of Dutch Henry Horn was no quitter. One day, somewhere down the line, there would have been a time of retribution. So, in the end, it was kill or get killed. Which made it the simplest of all choices.
Only one emotion touched Starbuck. He was glad James Horn was dead. And somehow relieved, almost sanguine. It had been a long hunt.
Nor was he yet out of the woods. He moved to the door and flung it open. The men in the outer office were on their feet, their faces taut with apprehension. He leveled the sixgun and they hastily cleared a path. No one spoke as he crossed the room; his eyes and the Colt swept constantly from side to side. Once past the row of desks, he turned and kept them covered as he backed to the door. He stepped outside and holstered his pistol. Then he hurried toward the corner.
On Main Street, Starbuck turned downtown. He strode rapidly in the direction of Bullock’s store, located on the next corner. The business district was already bustling with activity, and throngs of people jammed the boardwalk. Weaving in and out, he snaked through the crowd, ignoring the stares of passersby. When he was halfway down the block, a sudden shout behind him brought everything on the street to a standstill. He glanced over his shoulder and saw one of the land-company clerks standing at the corner. The shout became a shrill scream, wild and frenzied.
“Stop that man! He murdered Mr. Eastlake!”
Starbuck broke into a headlong sprint. Deadwood was infamous for vigilante justice, and the man known as John Eastlake was the town’s leading citizen. In the hands of a mob, he knew he would be lynched without trial or hearing. He bulled past a hard-faced miner who attempted to block his path. Then he jerked the sixgun and wiggled the barrel with a menacing gesture. The crowd split apart, some hugging the walls of buildings and others scattering into the street. He took the last few steps and darted into the hardware store. He kept the Colt trained on the door.
Seth Bullock rushed forward from his office. Outside, a clot of townspeople quickly gathered on the boardwalk, and more came running. Word spread along the street like wildfire, and there was a buzz of excitement mingled with dark mutterings. Bullock halted beside him, one eye on the crowd. His face was etched with bewilderment.
“What the hell’s all that about?”
“I braced Horn,” Starbuck said stolidly. “He went for a gun and I killed him.”
“Holy Jesus!” Bullock cursed. “Get on back to my office and lock the door.”
“I’d sooner take my chances here.”
“Don’t argue! I want you out of sight—now!”
Starbuck hesitated, then slowly backed toward the rear of the store. Bullock grabbed a shotgun off a nearby rack and emptied a box of shells on the counter. He swiftly loaded both barrels and snapped the breech closed. Then he walked to the door and stopped, the scattergun centered on the mob. His voice was harsh, commanding.
“Clear out! The man’s my prisoner and I’ve got a load of buckshot for anybody that disagrees. Go on, gawddamnit—get moving!”
The shotgun was steady, and the barrels looked big as mine shafts. The crowd stared back at him a moment; then those in the front rank turned away. The movement broke the spell and the mob dispersed to the opposite side of the street. Bullock slammed the door and locked it. His eyes were grim as he walked toward the office.
While Bullock listened, Starbuck briefly recounted the events of the past two days. He outlined how the safe had been cracked and explained in some detail the ledger dealing with graft collections. For reasons of his own, he omitted any mention of the affidavits linking Governor Ordway to political corruption. He concluded with a straightforward account of Horn’s death.
“Thought so,” Bullock said when he finished. “You went there plannin’ to kill him, didn’t you?”
“What’s the difference?” Starbuck replied. “He’s dead and that ends it. All I want now is a ticket out of Deadwood.”
“How d’you figure to do that? The sheriff and the whole courthouse crowd were Horn’s stooges. You’ll be charged with murder sure as thunder!”
“I’ve got something to trade.”
“Yeah?” Bullock eyed him narrowly. “What’s that?”
“The ledger,” Starbuck said with a tired smile. “It indicts the courthouse crowd the same as it did Horn. What’s in there could send every last one of them to prison. I’ll swap it for a ticket on the Cheyenne stage.”
“God a’mighty!” Bullock glowered at him in tongue-tied rage. “That’d let Ordway off the hook too! We wouldn’t have a case against nobody!”
“No way around it, Seth.” Starbuck gave him a downcast look. “It’s that or they’ll have me decorating a tree by sundown.”
“You rigged it!” Bullock said with sudden understanding. “You rigged it so you could kill Horn and walk away clean! All the time you wasn’t thinkin’ about nobody but yourself!”
“You believe what you want to believe. It doesn’t change a thing.”
“Where’s the ledger?”
“Hidden,” Starbuck said evasively. “I’ll tell you where after the coroner’s inquest.”
“What inquest?”
“That’s the rest of the deal.” A wintry smile lighted Starbuck’s eyes. “I want the whole story on the record. Horn’s real identity, and how he tried to have me assassinated. And I want a coroner’s jury to clear me of killing him—all neat and official and in writing!”
“You really think a bunch of politicians are gonna buy that? Hell, they’ll probably figure you’re tryin’ to set ’em up for a double-cross!”
“No inquest, no ledger,” Starbuck said equably. “I don’t see they’ve got any choice.”
Bullock chewed at his mustache before answering. “Why should I go out of my way to make your deal? You’ve done spoilt my game all to hell and gone!”
“Trust me, Seth.” Starbuck stared straight into his gaze. “You won’t regret it.”
Silence thickened between them. Finally, with a great shrug of resignation, Bullock cleared his throat. “Guess I couldn’t rightly let ’em stretch your neck. I’ll go see what we can work out.”
After the lawman was gone, Starbuck locked the door and fired up a cheroot. He took a chair, puffing smoke, and propped his boots on the desk. He looked pleased as a tomcat spitting feathers.
The stagecoach stood outside the Deadwood station. To the east, the sun crested the mountains like a fiery globe. Several passengers were milling about, awaiting the call to board. Their destination was Cheyenne.
Starbuck and Bullock were off to one side, talking quietly. The coroner’s inquest, held yesterday afternoon, had created a sensation. Starbuck’s testimony regarding John Eastlake’s true identity had turned the town topsy-
turvy. The assassination plot, corroborated by Bullock, had put the final onus on the dead man. The verdict was justifiable homicide, and the news had been flashed to papers all across the territory. The courthouse crowd, having fulfilled their end of the bargain, had spent an uneasy night. One piece of business still remained.
Squinting into the sun, Starbuck lowered his voice. “You know that loading dock out behind your store?”
“In the alley?” Bullock cocked his head. “What about it?”
“Dig down a foot or so over at the left side. You’ll find a leather satchel buried there. The ledger’s inside.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“You’ll find something else, too.” A slow smile tugged at the corner of Starbuck’s mouth. “There’s a couple of affidavits that ought to put Ordway on the rockpile till he’s an old man.”
Bullock looked astounded. “Affidavits about what?”
“When you’ve read them, you’ll understand. I’d suggest you go have a talk with the attorney general. Once he’s empaneled a grand jury and issued subpoenas, the lid will blow sky high. There’ll be all kinds of newspaper publishers and county commissioners ready to turn songbird.”
“Newspaper—”
“Not so loud!” Starbuck cut him short. “Just read the affidavits. You’ll hang Ordway, and along with him your own courthouse crowd. There’s plenty of rope for everybody.”
Bullock considered briefly, then nodded. “How come you didn’t tell me all this yesterday?”
Starbuck wagged his head. “The game’s not over till the last hand is dealt. I always like to have an ace up my sleeve.”
“Judas Priest!” Bullock laughed and smote him across the back. “You’re one of a kind, Luke! Goddamn me if you’re not!”
The driver let loose a leather-lunged shout. While the other passengers climbed aboard, the two men vigorously shook hands. There was a sense of celebration in their parting, and no maudlin words. Starbuck simply waved and stepped into the coach. Then he settled back in his seat with an inward sigh of relief.
He wasn’t sorry to put Deadwood behind him.
Chapter Nineteen
Verna Phelps thought the article in poor taste. She adjusted her pince-nez and spread the Denver Post on her desk. A grisly account of the Deadwood killing was featured on the front page. Written with a certain ghoulish detail, the article pandered to the reading public’s morbid sense of curiosity. She considered it a low form of yellow journalism.
