Manhunter / Deadwood

by Matt Braun

  “Try me and see.”

  “We got to kill him, Belle. Kill him now!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Starbuck sat stock-still. He listened as Belle’s footsteps rapidly crossed the porch, then there was silence. His smile vanished and his eyes flicked around the room.

  The interior of the house was smaller than it appeared from outside. Stoutly built, with chinked log walls, it consisted of a central living area and a separate bedroom. The battered table and chairs stood before an open fireplace with a mud chimney. A commode with a faded mirror occupied the wall beside the bedroom door. An ancient brass bed, visible through the door, gleamed in the flames from the fireplace. To the rear of the main room was a wood cooking stove and rough-hewn shelves packed with canned goods. A jumble of odds and ends was piled in the far corner.

  On the whole, it was sparse on comfort and smelled like a wolf den. Yet Starbuck wasn’t concerned with tidiness or the accommodations. He was looking for a backdoor—all too aware his Colt was no match for a shotgun at close quarters, and suddenly uncomfortable that the only exit was the door through which he had entered. His attention turned to the powwow under way on the front porch. There was no question he was the topic of conversation, but considerable doubt existed as to the verdict. He subscribed to the theory of “shoot first and talk about it later,” and a vantage point nearer the door seemed eminently advisable. Then, too, a bit of eavesdropping might very well improve his odds.

  Quietly, Starbuck rose and moved to the fireplace. He stood with his hands outstretched to the flames, one eye on the window. No one was watching him—nor was there any sound from outside—and he concluded they were still huddled at the end of the porch. Hugging the wall, he ghosted towards the front of the house. There, he flattened himself beside the windowsill and pressed his ear to the logs. The chinking was old and cracked, seeping air between small gaps, and through it he heard the drone of voices. A heated argument was under way.

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what you think!”

  “You’d better,” Sam grumbled. “I got a nose for those things.”

  “Heap big Injun!” Belle mocked him. “You’d starve to death if somebody hadn’t invented tinned goods!”

  “You got no call to say that.”

  “Oh, no? When’s the last time you and your mangy pack of brothers shot a deer—or a rabbit—or even a squirrel, for Chrissakes? You’ve got a hunter’s nose like I’ve got warts on my ass!”

  “I’m warnin’ you now! You leave my brothers outta this!”

  “Awww, dry up,” Belle said in a waspish tone. “The whole bunch of you couldn’t hold a candle to a cigar-store Indian. Your pa’s the only one with any balls—and it sure as hell didn’t get passed along to you!”

  “How come you’re always throwin’ the old man up in my face?”

  “Because nobody ever pulled his tail feathers. Go on, admit it! You’re full-grown and you still wet your pants anytime he looks cross-eyed at you.”

  “Mebbe you should’ve married him ’stead of me.”

  “Maybe!” Belle crowed. “Jesus Christ, no maybe about it! At least he’s still got some red-hot Injun blood left in him. Which is more than I can say for you and your butthole brothers.”

  Sam laughed without mirth. “Won’t work, Belle! I ain’t gonna get mad.”

  “Talk sense! What the Sam Hill’s that got to do with anything?”

  “’Cause you’re tryin’ to throw me off the scent and we both know it.”

  “Here we go again,” Belle gibed. “You and your track-’em-through-the-woods nose!”

  “I know a lawdog when I smell one.”

  “Sam, you poor sap! You couldn’t smell a fart if somebody caught it in a bottle and let you have the first sniff.”

  “I am warnin’ you, woman. That feller’s no bank robber! I’ll betcha he don’t know Jim Younger nor none of the others either.”

  “Judas Priest,” Belle groaned. “You heard me question him! You were standing there the whole time and I didn’t trip him up once. How do you explain that?”

  “I didn’t say he was dumb,” Sam reminded her. “I said he was a lawdog! So it just naturally figgers he’d have all the right answers. Any fool oughta see that.”

  “Are you calling me a fool, Sam Starr?”

  “No, I ain’t. I’m only tryin’ to talk some sense into your head.”

  “Well, you can talk till you’re blue in the face and it won’t change a thing. I told you once and I’m telling you again! I won’t let you kill him.”

  “Too bad your brains ain’t where they’re supposed to be.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means you’ve got hot drawers, that’s what it means.”

  “You’re crazy as a loon!”

  “Yeah?” Sam bristled. “You think I don’t know the sign when I see it? You got your mind set on him humpin’ you, and you ain’t gonna listen to reason till he forks you good and proper.”

  “That’s a dirty goddamn lie!”

  “Belle, how many men you humped since we got married? Mebbe you lost count, but I haven’t. I watched it happen enough times I know what I’m talkin’ about. You don’t want me to kill him ’cause you got hot drawers. So don’t tell me different.”

  “Well, so what?” Belle lashed out. “I go to bed with any damn body I please. I don’t need your permission!”

  “Never said otherwise,” Sam conceded. “All I’m sayin’ is, we’d be better off with him dead. So I’ll wait till after you’re done and then kill him. How’s that?”

  “No deal,” Belle said sternly. “I will budge a little, though. We’ll let him spend the night and then send him on his way. Fair enough?”

  “I wish you’d believe me when I tell you he’s a lawman. Probably sent personal by the Hangin’ Judge his-self.”

  “You think I don’t know a Missouri boy when I see one? He’s no more a marshal than you are. Hell’s bells, I’m a better judge of character than that!”

  “So go on and suit yourself. You always do anyway.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t get any wiseass notions about killing him after he leaves here. You do and I’ll wait till you’re asleep some night—and then I’ll cut your goddamn tally-whacker clean off! You hear me, Sam?”

  “I hear you.”

  Starbuck heard her, too. He was again seated at the dining table when Belle led her husband through the door. Several things were apparent to him from their conversation. Foremost was that he would have only one night to squeeze Belle dry of information. Another factor, which might serve to loosen her tongue, was that she’d bought his story about Jim Younger. Yet, like an alley cat in heat, she had designs on his body, and big plans for the night ahead. One look at her gargoyle face and he began having second thoughts about the detective business. He wasn’t sure he could get it up—much less romance her—even in the cause of law and order.

  Sam halted near the door and Belle moved directly to the table. Watching her, Starbuck wondered how it would work with a sack over her head. He thought it an idea worth exploring.

  “Forgot to introduce you boys,” Belle said, gesturing towards the door. “Clyde, want you to meet my husband Sam Starr.”

  “Howdy, Sam.” Starbuck nodded amiably. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

  Sam muttered something unintelligible, and Belle quickly resumed. “How would you like to stay to supper and spend the night?”

  “Why, I’d be most obliged, Miz Belle.”

  “We’d ask you to stay longer, but it wouldn’t work out just now. We’ve got a business deal of our own that won’t keep.”

  “No problem,” Starbuck said agreeably. I was just passin’ through, anyhow. Only stopped off to pay my respects.”

  “Too bad in a way.” Belle feigned a rueful look. “You and Sam would probably get a kick out of chewing the fat. But he’s got to run over to his pa’s place and tend to that business deal. Don
’t you, Sam?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Sam gave her a disgruntled scowl, then turned towards the door. “See you in the mornin’.”

  A few minutes later, Belle watched from the porch while her husband led a horse from the barn and mounted. When the hoofbeats faded into the night, she stepped back inside and closed the door. She smiled like a tigress stalking a goat.

  Starbuck, cast in the role of the goat, had a sudden sinking feeling. It looked to be a long night.

  Whatever else she was, Belle Starr was no cook. She served Starbuck sowbelly and beans, a pasty hominy gruel, and cornbread baked hard as sandstone. He wolfed it down with gusto—grinning all the while—and topped off the performance with an appreciative belch. The belch was the easiest part, and required no strain. He felt gassy as a bloated hog.

  After clearing the table, Belle brought out a couple of tin cups and a quart of rotgut. The whiskey had a bite like molten lead, and tasted as though it had been aged in a turpentine barrel. No sipper, Belle was clearly a lady who enjoyed her liquor. She poured with the regularity of a metronome, and slugged it down without batting an eye. Starbuck, sensing opportunity, matched her shot for shot. She wanted his body and he wanted information, and it all boiled down to who got crocked first. Unless she had a hollow leg, he thought there was a reasonable chance he could outlast her.

  In passing, Starbuck noted that he’d been dead on the mark regarding her vanity. She was a woman with a high opinion of herself, and not above putting on airs. Earlier, on the porch with Sam, she had displayed the foul mouth of a veteran muleskinner. Yet with Starbuck, her language bordered on the ladylike, sweeter than sugar and twice as nice. The more she drank, the more he had to admire her style. For a virtuoso of four-letter words, it took considerable restraint to hobble her tongue. He mentally applauded the effort, and bided his time waiting for her to slip back into character. Only then would he make his move.

  Along towards midnight, Starbuck’s patience was rewarded. The bottle of popskull was approaching empty, and Belle’s eyes were fixed in a glassy stare that seemed vaguely out of focus. She wasn’t ossified, but her tolerance to snakebite would last well into next week. Starbuck was feeling a little numb himself, warmed by a tingling sensation that extended to his hair roots. Yet he still had his wits about him, and it appeared he’d won the drinking bout. The lady bandit suddenly reverted to her true self. And her choice of words was all the tipoff he needed.

  “You know something, Clyde?” Her mouth curled in a coy smile. “For an old Missouri boy, you’re a goddamn sweet-looking man.”

  “Well, Miz Belle”—Starbuck grinned, suppressing his revulsion, and plunged ahead—“you’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself.”

  “Forget that Miz Belle shit. I’m not your mama and you’re not wet behind the ears. You follow me?”

  Starbuck’s grin turned to a suggestive leer. “What’d you have in mind?”

  “When I was a girl—” Belle burst out in a bawdy horselaugh. “All the prissy-assed little buttermouths at the Female Academy called it the birds and the bees. Once I took up with boys, I learned it was better known as stink finger and hide the weenie. That answer your question?”

  “Sounds the least bit like an invitation.”

  “I never was one to mince words. A woman’s got the same needs as a man.”

  “Some folks call it horny.”

  “By God, Clyde, you’re a card! Always was partial to a man with a sense of humour.”

  “What about Sam?” Starbuck jerked his chin at the door. “I’d hate to have him come bustin’ in here with that shotgun just when I was all set to flush the birds out of your nest.”

  “Wooiee!” Belle leaned forward, grabbing his head in both hands, and planted one smack on his lips. “Flush the birds out of my nest! Goddamn, that’s rich, Clyde. I do like the sound of it!”

  Starbuck felt like he’d been kissed by a dragon. “Not to put a damper on things, but I’d shore like to hear your answer about Sam.”

  “Who gives a fuck?” Belle gave him a sly and tipsy look. “I sent Sam packing for the night, and that’s that! You just rest easy, sport.”

  Starbuck paused, then smoothly laid the trap. “Well, now, I dunno. Jim told me about you and Cole, but I just naturally figgered—”

  “What about Cole?”

  “Why, that you was sweet on him. The way Jim talked it went back long before the war.”

  Belle poured herself a stiff shot and knocked it back. “What else did he tell you?”

  “Say, look here—Starbuck broke off with a troubled frown.”I don’t want to step on nobody’s toes. Maybe I’d best let it drop there.”

  “No, you don’t!” Belle demanded. “You started it, now finish it!”

  “Listen, Belle, me and Jim go way back. I shore wouldn’t wanna get him in Dutch.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Belle drunkenly waved the objection aside. “I won’t hold it against Jim. Now stop dancing around and spill it! What’d he tell you?”

  “Nothin’ much, really.” Starbuck’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Only that you let Cole and the boys hide out here after they’d pulled a job. I seem to recollect he mentioned Jesse and Frank, too.”

  The effects of her last drink suddenly overtook Belle. She squinted owlishly and her speech slurred. “How about Ruston’s place?”

  Starbuck held his breath. “You mean the other hideout?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait a minute!” Starbuck wrinkled his brow in concentration. “Why, shore, Ruston! Near as I recall, Jim said he’d served with ’im under Quantrill. Now what the blue-billy-hell was his first name? Got it right on the tip of my tongue!”

  “Tom,” Belle mumbled. “Good ol’ Tom Ruston. Wish I had his spread and he had a feather up his ass! We’d both be tickled pink.”

  Starbuck played along. “Jim said it was some layout.”

  “One of the biggest.” Belle nodded. “And on the Pecos, that’s saying a lot! Nothing small-time about Texans.”

  “You’re tellin’ me!” Starbuck laughed. “I reckon I’ve trailed enough cows outta Texas to have a pretty fair idea.” He hesitated, choosing his words. “Well, maybe I’ll run acrost Jim down there one of these days.”

  “Not likely.” Belle sloshed whiskey into her cup, wholly unaware she had emptied the bottle. “Long as they’re safe here, they got no reason to bother Ruston.”

  Starbuck decided not to press it further. The last piece of the puzzle was now clear, and all that remained was to fit the parts together. With a broad grin, he lifted his cup in a toast. “Here’s to the Youngers! Ol’ King Cole and the best damn brothers any man could ask for.”

  “I’ll drink to that!”

  Belle drained her cup in a long swallow and lowered it to her lap. Whiskey dribbled down her chin and she burped, clapping her hand to her mouth with a foolish giggle. She gave Starbuck a dopey smile and reached for his hand. Then a wave of dizziness rocked her, and her eyes suddenly glazed. The cup clattered to the floor and her head thumped forward onto the table.

  Starbuck lifted her from her chair and carried her to the bedroom. She was out cold and lay like a corpse while he undressed her. Unmoved by her nakedness, he pulled the covers up to her chin and turned away. At the door, he glanced back and let go a heavy sigh of relief.

  He felt like a condemned man with a last-minute reprieve.

  Late the next morning Starbuck led his horse from the barn and halted before the house. Belle, suffering from a monumental hangover, stood on the porch. He gave her a lewd wink and playfully patted her on the thigh.

  “You’re some woman, Miz Belle Starr. One of a kind!”

  Belle’s eyes were bloodshot, vaguely disoriented. “Clyde, tell me something. How’d things work out last night?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Not just exactly. Did you—uh—flush the birds out of the nest?”

  “Did I ever!” Starbuck whooped. “Scattered ’em all to hell and gone!”


  “Yeah?” Belle seemed bemused. “Well, how was it?”

  “Never had none better! You plumb tuckered me out, and that’s the gospel truth.”

  Belle brightened visibly. “You Missouri boys always was hot-blooded.”

  “Godalmightybingo! Stink finger and hide the weenie! Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Miz Belle!”

  Starbuck tossed her a roguish salute and stepped into the saddle. He turned the gelding out of the yard and gigged him into a prancing trot. At the mouth of the canyon, he twisted around and waved his hat high overhead. Belle, looking fluttery as a schoolgirl, threw him a kiss.

  The performance ended as Starbuck rode towards the river. His jaw hardened and his mouth set in a tight line. For the moment, Indian Territory was a washout, and he saw nothing to be gained in scouting the ranch on the Pecos. All of which meant he’d exhausted his options. Jesse James would have to be hunted down on homeground.

  He forded the river and headed north, towards Missouri. And Clay County.

  CHAPTER 8

  A cold blue dusk settled over the winter landscape.

  Lamar Hudspeth waited in the shadows of the barn. With his son at his side, he watched three riders approach along the rutted wagon road. A snowfall, followed by a brief warm spell, had turned the road into a boggy quagmire. The horses slogged through the mud, heads bowed against a brisk wind, snorting frosty clouds of vapour. Their riders reined off the road and proceeded towards the barn at a plodding walk. Hudspeth stepped out of the shadows.

  “Cole.” He greeted the men by name as they dismounted. “Jim, you’re lookin’ fit. Evenin’, Bob.”

  “How do, Lamar.”

  Cole Younger merely bobbed his head. “Jesse here yet?”

  “Nope,” Hudspeth replied with a shrug. “He’ll be along directly though. Probably waitin’ till it gets full dark.”

  “Horseshit!” Cole loosed a satiric laugh. “He’s waitin’ to see if we get ourselves ambushed. Jesse always was good at lettin’ somebody else bird-dog for him.”

  “You got no call to talk that way, Cole.”