by Matt Braun
Several things were apparent now. Foremost among them was the fact that Otis Tilford had given him the straight goods. Nowhere in Missouri could Jesse James be tried in a court of law and found guilty. Even in the event he were captured, there was little likelihood of securing an indictment. The time for that was long past, and would never again return. Underdogs who became living legends were immune to the laws that governed lesser men. So the alternative was obvious, and precisely as Tilford had stated. Jesse James had to be killed.
Insofar as the job itself was concerned, Starbuck realised he faced a formidable task. All the obstacles that had defeated the Pinkertons would likewise hinder his own investigation. The people of Clay County were clannish, openly suspicious of any stranger, and would doubtless prove none too talkative. To compound the problem, they were rightfully fearful of the James-Younger gang, and aware of the consequences to anyone who spoke out of school. The reasonable conclusion, then, was that he would make little headway in Clay County itself. Without solid information—a lead of some sort—it would be a waste of time and effort. Not to mention the great probability he’d wind up bushwhacked on a back-country road some dark night.
Still, based on what he’d read in the file, there was a definite pattern to the gang’s activities. After pulling a job every six months or so, they always vanished without a trace. Generally a month or longer would pass before they were again reported in Clay County. Which meant they went to ground and laid low following a holdup. The Pinkertons, even with their bureaucratic mentality, had tumbled to the pattern.
Yet, at the same time, the Pinkertons had overlooked what seemed a salient point. A passing comment in one of the reports noted that Cole Younger had sired a daughter by Belle Starr. Almost as an afterthought, the report indicated that Belle Starr was now living in Indian Territory. No other connection had been made regarding the gang, particularly with respect to Jesse James. Nor had it occurred to the Pinkertons to check it out further. Either Indian Territory wasn’t their cup of tea, or else they considered the item a worthless bit of trivia. Whichever, it seemed to Starbuck an oversight.
There was a link, however tenuous, between Cole Younger and his former lady love. Coupled with the fact that the gang vanished after every job, it made for interesting speculation. Moreover, from the standpoint of a robber, it was a link that made eminent good sense. A hideout in Indian Territory would be damn hard to beat. Not only was it a sanctuary for outlaws, but the nearest law was the U.S. marshal’s office at Fort Smith. No better place existed for a man to lose himself until the dust settled. And taken to its logical conclusion, the thought was equally true for an entire gang. Perhaps more so.
Starbuck had no idea whether Cole Younger and Belle Starr were still on speaking terms. That Jesse James and the gang used her place as a hideout was an even greater question mark. Yet the link existed, and thus far it was his only lead. A place to start.
CHAPTER 5
Starbuck stepped off the train at a whistle-stop in Indian Territory. A way station for travellers and freight, the depot was located on the west bank of the Arkansas River. On the opposite shore stood Fort Smith.
Hefting his warbag, Starbuck walked towards the ferry landing. No stranger to Indian Territory, he was reminded of an assignment that now seemed a lifetime ago. Some seven years past, on his first job as a range detective, he had trailed a band of horse thieves through the Nations. The homeland of the five Civilised Tribes—Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole—it was so named because they had chosen to follow the white man’s path. Bounded by Texas, Kansas and Arkansas, the Nations were still a long way from civilised.
No less ironic, in Starbuck’s view, was the name of the railroad line. The Little Rock & Fort Smith Railroad extended to the depot on the western shoreline, and the river roughly paralleled the boundary separating Arkansas and Indian Territory. But there was no bridge spanning the river, and thus the railroad stopped short of its namesake. Ferryboats were the sole means of conveying freight and passengers from the depot to Fort Smith. As a practical matter, the railroad terminus was on Indian land, and separated from the white man’s world by far more than a river. From the depot westward there was a sense of having taken a step backward in time.
Now, standing on the foredeck of the ferry, Starbuck stared across the river at Fort Smith. Originally an army post, the town was situated on a sandstone bluff overlooking the juncture of the Arkansas and Poteau rivers. With time, it had become a centre of commerce and trade, serving much of Western Arkansas and a good part of Indian Territory. Warehouses crowded the waterfront, and in the distance the town itself looked to be a prosperous frontier community. The largest settlement bordering the Nations, it boasted four newspapers, one bank, and thirty saloons which enjoyed a captive trade from transients bound for the great Southwest. By federal law, the sale of firewater was banned throughout Indian Territory.
When the ferry docked, Starbuck inquired directions to the U.S. marshal’s office. From the wharf, he followed Garrison Avenue, the main street that ran through the centre of town. On the far side of the business district, he approached the garrison of the old army post. Abandoned some years before by the military, the compound was now headquarters for the Federal District Court of Western Arkansas. And the indisputable domain of Judge Isaac Charles Parker—the Hanging Judge.
Starbuck, like most Westerners, thought Judge Parker had been slandered by the Eastern press. His jurisdiction covered Western Arkansas and all of Indian Territory, a wilderness area which encompassed some 74,000 square miles. To enforce his orders, he was assigned two hundred U.S. deputy marshals, and the almost impossible task of policing a land virtually devoid of law. Four months after taking office, he had sentenced six convicted murderers to be hanged simultaneously.
The thud of the gallows trap that day called the attention of all America to Judge Parker. Newspapermen poured into Fort Smith, and a crowd of more than 5,000 gathered to witness the executions. The press immediately tagged him the Hanging Judge, and decried the brutality of his methods. In the furor, the purpose of his object lesson was completely lost. Yet the reason he’d hung six men that day—and went on to hang eighteen more in the next six years—lay just across the river.
Gangs, of white outlaws made forays into Kansas, Missouri and Texas, and then retreated into Indian Territory. There they found perhaps the oddest sanctuary in the history of crime. Though each tribe had its own sovereign government, with courts and Light Horse Police, their authority extended only to Indian citizens. White men were untouchable, exempt from all prosecution except that of a federal court. Yet there were no extradition laws governing the Nations; federal marshals had to pursue and capture the wanted men; and in time the country became infested with hundreds of fugitives from justice. Curiously enough, the problem was compounded by the Indians themselves.
The red man had little use for the white man’s laws, and the marshals were looked upon as intruders in the Nations. All too often the Indians connived with the outlaws, offering them asylum; and the chore of ferreting out entire gangs became a murderous task. It was no job for the faint of heart, as evidenced by the toll in lawmen. Over the past six years nearly thirty federal marshals had been gunned down in Indian Territory.
The old military garrison was a grim setting for the grim work carried out by Judge Parker and his staff. A bleak two-storey building housed the courtroom and offices for the federal prosecutors. As many as ten cases a day were tried, and few men were acquitted. The majority were given stiff sentences—all the law would allow—and quickly transported to federal prisons. Convicted murderers were allowed one last visit with immediate family. Then they were hung.
Another stone building, formerly the post commissary, was situated across the old parade ground. A low one-storey affair, it was headquarters for the U.S. marshal and his complement of deputies. In the centre of the compound, within clear view of both buildings, stood the gallows. Constructed of heavy timbers, it
had four trapdoors, each three feet wide and twenty feet long. If occasion demanded, there was adequate space for twelve men to stand side by side and plunge to oblivion on the instant. The structure was roofed and walled, so that executions could be performed even in bad weather. Judge Parker, among other things, believed that justice should be swift—and timely.
Crossing the compound, Starbuck observed activity near the gallows. A crowd, growing larger by the minute, was gathering outside a roped-off area which formed a horseshoe around three sides of the structure. The onlookers were composed of townspeople and farmers, their wives and children, and a collection of travellers distinguishable by their dress. A holiday atmosphere seemed to prevail, and an excited murmur swept over them as a bearded man slowly mounted the stairs. Hushed, the spectators watched as he walked to the centre trap and began testing the knotted hemp nooses. All business, he went about his work with an air of professional detachment.
Starbuck figured it was his lucky day. From the looks of things, he would get to see the Western District Court in action. With one last glance, he went up the steps to the old commissary building. Inside, directly off the hallway, he entered what appeared to be the main office. A man was seated at a battered rolltop desk, hunched forward over a litter of paperwork. He looked up without expression, and waited.
“Afternoon,” Starbuck said amiably. “I’d like to see the U.S. marshal.”
“You’ve found him,” the man replied, rising from his chair. “I’m Jim Fagan.”
Starbuck accepted his handshake. “Luke Starbuck.”
Fagan was bearish in appearance, with square features and a shaggy mane of hair. Yet there was a rocklike simplicity in his manner, open and unassuming. He let go Starbuck’s hand, cocked his head to one side.
“Starbuck.” he repeated aloud. “Why, hell, yes! You’re the detective fellow, aren’t you? The one that got his picture in the Police Gazette.”
“Wish to Christ I hadn’t,” Starbuck admitted unhappily. “In my line of work, it don’t pay to have your face plastered all over the country.”
“Take a load off your feet.” Fagan gestured to a chair beside the desk. “Not often we get a look at a real-live detective.”
Starbuck seated himself. “Don’t believe everything you read. Lots of that stuff was hogwash, pure and simple.”
“Now you’re gonna spoil my day! Near as I recollect, that article said you had a hand in puttin’ the skids to Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. You mean to tell me it’s not so?”
“No,” Starbuck conceded. “I’m just saying reporters invent about half of what they write. Never known one yet that stuck to the straight facts.”
“Guess you got a point.” Fagan leaned back in his chair, suddenly earnest. “Well, now, what brings you to Fort Smith? Hot on a case, are you?”
“After a fashion,” Starbuck commented. “Wondered what you could tell me about Belle Starr.”
“What’s to tell?” Fagan said with mild contempt. “Her and Sam Starr—that’s her husband—rustle livestock and pull penny-ante holdups. Strictly small-time.”
“What kind of holdups?”
“Nuisance stuff,” Fagan observed. “Trading posts, backwoods stores … every now and then they smuggle a load of whiskey into the Nations. Between them, they haven’t got brains enough to take on a bank or train.”
“Why haven’t you arrested them?”
“We’ve got our hands full with the real hardcases. Course, that don’t mean their number won’t show. One of these days we’ll get ’em for horse stealing or some such—only a matter of time.”
“So there’s nothing hanging over, their heads right now?”
“Nothing particular.” Fagan’s gaze sharpened. “What’s your interest in Miz Belle? She’s a slut, common as dirt. Otherwise she wouldn’t have married herself off to a reformed dog-eater.”
“Her husband’s an Indian?”
Fagan nodded. “Full-blooded Cherokee.”
“I understand they’ve got a place over in the Nations.”
“On the Canadian River,” Fagan affirmed. “Way the hell back in the middle of nowhere. Not marked on any map, but it’s called Younger’s Bend.”
Starbuck looked startled. “Younger’s Bend?”
“Well, so the story goes, Belle had herself a kid by Cole Younger. That was some years ago, but apparently she’s not one to forget an old sweetheart.”
“You’re saying she named her place after Cole Younger?”
Fagan slowly shook his head. “I can see how you made your mark as a detective. You’ve got a knack for askin’ all the questions—without answering any yourself.”
“No offence,” Starbuck said, smiling faintly. “Old habits are hard to break.”
“Suppose we try,” Fagan said in a firm voice. “You dodged it a minute ago, so I’ll ask again. What’s your interest in Belle Starr?”
Starbuck gave him a thoughtful stare. “Anything I say would have to be off the record.”
Fagan unpinned his badge and tossed it on the desk. “Shoot”
“I’m after Jesse and Frank James. I’ve got reason to believe they’re using Belle Starr’s place as a hideout.”
“The hell you say!” Fagan looked at him with some surprise. “Where’d you get a notion like that?”
“A word here, a word there,” Starbuck said evasively. “Nothing solid, but a man plays his best hunch.”
“One way to find out,” Fagan informed him. “I’ve got a chief deputy that sort of oversees the Cherokee Nation. Want me to call him in?”
“Will he keep his lip buttoned?”
“I’ll guarantee it.” Fagan threw back his head and roared. “Heck Thomas! Get your dusty butt in here—now!”
A moment passed, then the sound of footsteps drifted in from the hallway. The man who appeared through the door was tall and rangy, with close-cropped hair and a wide handlebar moustache. His eyes were grey and impersonal, and his features were set in the stern expression befitting a church deacon. Starbuck marked him as a mankiller, which immediately put them on common ground.
After a round of introductions, Fagan briefly explained the situation. Heck Thomas listened impassively, arms folded across his chest, saying nothing. At last, when his boss concluded, his gaze shifted to Starbuck.
“Belle and Sam aren’t too high on our list, you understand?”
“So Marshal Fagan told me.”
“Anything I pass along would be mostly hearsay and rumour.”
“No harm in listening.”
“Well—” Thomas paused, lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Every now and then I get word that a bunch of strangers have been seen at Belle’s place. Just that—a bunch of strangers—no names, no descriptions.”
“You never had reason to check it out?”
“Nope,” Thomas said simply. “Belle’s probably screwed half the male population of Indian Territory. So it don’t spark much curiosity when we hear there’s strange men hangin’ around her place.”
“These strangers,” Starbuck inquired, “were they white men?”
“I don’t remember anybody sayin’ one way or the other.”
“How often have you heard they were there?”
“Oh, once or twice a year. Course, keep in mind, I never heard it was the same men every time. Like I said, no names, no descriptions … nothin’.”
Starbuck thought it was far from nothing. The appearance of strangers at Belle Starr’s place—once or twice a year—dovetailed very neatly with the disappearance of the James gang following their periodic holdups. The information was promising, and substantiated what until now had been a shot in the dark. His instinct told him he was on the right track.
For the next few minutes, he questioned Thomas at length about Belle Starr. The lawman required little prompting, and gave him an earful regarding the lady bandit’s tawdry personal life. Then, moving to a large wall map, Thomas traced the route to Younger’s Bend. He allowed it was an easy two days’
ride, but cautioned Starbuck to keep his eyes open. The Nations was no place for a man to get careless. And that applied most especially, he added, to a lawman.
Starbuck inquired the best place to buy a horse, and Fagan directed him to a stable on the south side of town. After a few parting remarks, he shook the marshal’s hand and thanked him for his assistance. Thomas, waiting near the door, motioned him into the hallway and walked him outside.
On the steps they halted and looked towards the gallows. The death warrant had been read and a minister was intoning a final prayer. Four condemned men stood positioned on the centre trap, their hands tied behind their backs and black hoods fitted over their heads. The bearded man Starbuck had seen earlier moved down the line, snugging each noose tight, careful to centre the knot below the left ear. Then he turned and walked directly to a wooden lever behind the prisoners. The crowd, morbidly curious, edged closer to the scaffold.
“Who’s the hangman?”
“Name’s George Maledon,” Thomas said stolidly. “Takes pride in his work. Likes to brag he’s never let a man strangle to death. Always breaks a fellow’s neck first crack out of the box.”
“How many men has he hung?”
“That bunch’ll make twenty-eight.”
A loud whump suddenly sounded from the gallows. The four men dropped through the trapdoor and hit the end of the ropes with an abrupt jolt. Their necks snapped in unison, and their heads, crooked at a grotesque angle, flopped over their right shoulders. The spectators, staring bug-eyed at the scaffold, seemed to hold their breath. Hanging limp, the dead men swayed gently, the scratchy creak of taut rope somehow deafening in the stillness. One eye on his watch, the executioner finally nodded to the prison physician. Working quickly, the doctor moved from body to body, testing for a heartbeat with his stethoscope. A moment later he pronounced the four men officially dead.
Starbuck grunted softly to himself. “Damn shame Judge Parker’s not running the whole country.”
