by Matt Braun
While arranging the disguise, Starbuck had reviewed his mental catalogue on Clay County. From the Pinkerton file, he recalled that the Younger brothers were notorious womanisers. The James boys, for all their quickness with a gun, were faithful husbands and devoted family men. But the Youngers, particularly Cole, were known to frequent a brothel operated by one Ma Ferguson. Located outside the town of Liberty, the bawdy house was situated in the southwestern tip of the county, and apparently catered to the rougher element. Somewhat remote, lying on a back-country road between Kearney and Liberty, it was a place to be avoided by strangers. According to the Pinkerton file, it was considered a certain-death assignment for both law officers and private investigators. No undercover operative had ever attempted to infiltrate Ma Ferguson’s cathouse.
Starbuck thought it the most likely place to start. For one thing, he would arouse less suspicion simply because the Pinkertons, for the last eight years, had steered clear of the dive. For another, it would allow him to observe the gang—perhaps strike up an acquaintance—when they were most vulnerable. Men intent on swilling booze and rutting with whores were almost certain to lower their guard. Then, too, the easygoing atmosphere of a brothel fitted nicely with his overall plan. Ma Ferguson’s was but an initial step, a matter of establishing himself and gaining the confidence of the girls who worked there. His ultimate goal was to infiltrate the James-Younger gang itself.
Starbuck had devised a cock-and-bull story that was entirely plausible. He would pose as a horse thief—operating out of Dodge City—who was now on the run from Kansas lawmen. Dodge City, billing itself as the Queen of Cowtowns, was also the current horseflesh capital of the West. Along with the longhorn herds driven to railhead, thousands of horses were trailed up each year from Texas. Some were sold there; others were moved north, to distant markets in Montana and Wyoming. Horse thieves, like wolves sniffing fresh scent, had made Dodge City their headquarters. And therein lay his cover story. One thief, forced to take the owlhoot, would draw little in the way of curiosity. It was an occupational hazard, all part of the game. So common, in fact, that wanted posters were no longer circulated on horse thieves.
All that remained was to attract the attention of the Younger brothers. A high roller, throwing his money to the winds, would do for openers. Then, somewhere along the line, he would find a way to impress them, and gain their favour. Only then would they accept him as a thief who aspired to greater things, one who deserved their consideration. And only then, when he’d wormed his way into their ranks, would he get the chance he sought. A shot at Jesse James.
The plan entailed a high degree of risk. One slip—the slightest miscue—and he was a dead man. Yet, at the same time, his charade would represent the safest possible approach. The Youngers would never suspect that a private detective, alone and unaided, would invade their favourite whorehouse. Nor would they guess that his audacity was less invention than necessity. Try as he might, he’d thought of nothing else that would work in Clay County.
Shortly after nightfall, Starbuck rode into the yard of Ma Ferguson’s place. The house was a large two-storey structure, brightly lighted and painted a dazzling white. He thought the colour an ironic choice—one seldom associated with ladies of negotiable virtue—and instantly pegged Ma Ferguson for a woman with a sense of humour. Stepping down from the saddle, he loosened the cinch and left the roan tied to a hitch rack out front. Then, dusting himself off, he strode boldly into the house.
The front room, as in most bordellos, was fashioned on the order of a parlour. Sofas and chairs were scattered at random, with a small bar in one corner and an upright piano along the far wall. The hour was still early, and only two customers, townsmen by their dress, were in evidence. The girls, nearly a dozen in number, lounged on the sofas while a black man with pearly teeth pounded out a tune on the piano. Ma Ferguson, a large, heavyset woman in her forties, was seated in an overstuffed armchair. She gave Starbuck’s range clothes a slow once-over, then smiled and waved him to the bar.
“First one’s on the house, dearie!”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Starbuck doffed his Stetson and hooked it on a hatrack. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Walking forward, he halted at the bar and ordered rye. Before the barkeep finished pouring, a girl appeared at his elbow. Her eyelids were darkened with kohl and her cheeks were bright with rouge. She smiled a bee-stung smile.
“Hello there, handsome.”
“Hello yourself.” Starbuck gave her a burlesque leer. “Buy you a drink?”
“My mama taught me to never say no.”
Starbuck laughed, his face wreathed in high good humour. “I shore hope that don’t apply just to drinks.”
“Why, honeybunch, you can bet your boots on it!” The girl was a pocket Venus. She was small and saucy, with a gamine quality that was compellingly attractive. Her delicate features were framed by ash-blonde hair, and her wraparound housecoat fitted snuggly across fruity breasts and tightly rounded buttocks. She fixed him with a smile that would have melted the heart of a drill sergeant.
“Let me guess.” Her eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth. “You’re a cowboy, aren’t you?”
“Close,” Starbuck said with a waggish grin. “You might say I’m a horse trader.”
“Nooo,” she breathed. “Really?”
“Sometimes.” Starbuck’s grin broadened. “Course, it all depends.”
“On what?”
“On whose horses we’re tradin’.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Sweetie, I do like a man who likes a joke!”
“Well, little lady, I’ve got a hunch you’re gonna like me lots.”
“I’m Alvina.” She leaned closer, squashing a breast against his arm. “What’s your name … horse trader?”
“Floyd Hunnewell.” Starbuck cocked one eye askew. “Fresh from Kansas and hot to trot.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place, Floyd.”
“Alvina, you shore know how to make a feller feel welcome.”
“Honey, you haven’t seen nothing yet!”
For the next two nights Starbuck played the braggart. He took a room at the hotel in Liberty; but he saw it only during daylight hours. By dark each evening, he was Johnny-on-the-spot at Ma Ferguson’s bordello. And his nights were spent in Alvina’s bed.
Starbuck drank heavily, and flung money around as if he owned a printing press. The effect, considering the mercenary nature of his hostess, was somewhat predictable. Ma Ferguson accorded him the deferential treatment reserved for big spenders, and saw to it that his glass was never empty. She also allowed him to monopolise Alvina. The charge, which included sleeping over, was a mere twenty dollars a night.
Outwardly bluff and hearty, Starbuck acted the part with a certain panache. Sober, he appeared to be a happy-go-lucky drifter, with some mysterious, and inexhaustible, source of funds. With several drinks under his belt, he then turned garrulous, pretending the loose tongue of an amiable drunk. Whores were accustomed to braggarts who seemed possessed of some irresistible urge to toot their horn and confide their innermost secrets. So Alvina found nothing unusual in Floyd Hunnewell’s boastful manner, and she dutifully portrayed the spellbound listener. He told her a tale of outlandish proportions.
Improvising as he went along, Starbuck intertwined fact with fabrication. His story, unfolding in bits and pieces, was recounted with an air of drunken self-importance. A Texan born and bred, he’d worked as a cowhand since boyhood. Over the years, he had trailed herds to every cowtown on the Kansas plains. Then, after last summer’s drive to Dodge City, he awoke to the fact that he was getting no younger, and no richer. Determined to make something of himself, he looked over the field and decided that horse stealing was an enterprise with real potential. For the past seven months, he had averaged better than fifty head a month, and it was all profit. In total, he had cleared more than ten thousand and no end in sight. A minor error in judgement had put the law on his tail, but that was no g
reat calamity. He could afford to lie low and let the dust settle. Meanwhile, he was scouting around for a new venture, something befitting a man of his talents. Horse stealing, he’d decided, was too easy. A fellow who wanted to get ahead had to raise his sights—aim higher!
Alvina bought the story. It was, after all, no great shocker. Cowhands turned outlaw were fairly commonplace, and a horse thief in her bed was no cause for excitement. She’d slept with worse—lots worse—and never given it a thought. Yet she hadn’t slept with anyone lately who was as much fun as Floyd Hunnewell. For all his crowing and cocksure conceit, he was damned likable. And to her surprise, he was a regular ball of fire in bed. The last couple of nights, she’d actually found herself enjoying it. Which was something to ponder.
To Starbuck, it was all in a day’s work. Alvina was good company—gullible like most whores—and he was pleased that she’d swallowed his fairy tale so readily. But that wasn’t the reason he had selected her over the other girls, and stuck with her for two nights running. Instead, he’d zeroed in on her because she was by far the prettiest girl in Ma Ferguson’s henhouse. Some gut instinct told him that her pert good looks would make her the favourite of one or more of the Younger brothers. By and by, he meant to turn that to advantage.
Late the third evening, Starbuck was seated on one of the sofas with Alvina. They were talking quietly, sipping whiskey, but his mind was elsewhere. The thought occurred that he might be in for a long wait. So far there had been no sign of the Youngers, and he’d heard no mention of their name. For all he knew, they might have taken their trade to another whorehouse. Or even worse, they could be off robbing a bank—and ready to hightail it for the Nations. By his count, they were already some months overdue at Belle Starr’s. Still, there was nothing for it but to curb his impatience and wait it out. Time would tell, and meanwhile Alvina was a pleasant enough diversion. A damn sight more pleasant than that axe-faced bitch he’d wooed at Younger’s Bend.
Alvina suddenly stiffened. She caught her breath in a sharp gasp and stared past him towards the door. He turned and saw three men enter the parlour. Though no photographs or drawings existed, the men fitted the general description of the Younger brothers. One of them separated, walking in the direction of the sofa while the other two continued on to the bar. He was powerfully built, with a pockmarked face, coarse sandy hair, and the bulge of a pistol beneath his coat. He halted, nodding to Alvina.
“How’s things?”
“Fine.” Alvina appeared flustered. “You haven’t been around much lately.”
“Well, I’m here now. C’mon, we’ll have a drink and get ourselves caught up.”
“Cousin,” Starbuck interrupted politely. “You’ve done stopped at the wrong pew. The lady’s taken for the night.”
“Who says?”
“I reckon I do.” Starbuck uncoiled slowly and got to his feet. “’Specially since I paid for the privilege.”
“The night’s young. You just get in line, and when I’m done, she’s all yours.”
Starbuck sensed opportunity, and seized it. “Cousin, you must’ve heard wrong—”
“I’ve heard all I wanna hear! Close your trap or I’ll close it for you.”
“Say, looky here.” A cocked sixgun emerged like a magician’s dove from inside Starbuck’s jacket. He scowled, and wagged the tip of the barrel. “I don’t much cotton to threats. Suppose you just haul it out of here before I get tempted to make your asshole wink.”
“Omigawd!” Alvina jumped to her feet. “Floyd, put it away! Please, honey, I’m asking—”
“Why the hell should I?”
“Because,” Alvina whispered, touching his arm. “That’s Jim Younger! The big one at the bar is Cole Younger, and the other one is Clell Miller. They’ll kill you if you don’t back off!”
“Younger?” Starbuck gave her a look of walleyed amazement. “Are you talkin’ about the Younger brothers?”
“In the flesh,” Alvina acknowledged. “Now cool down and play it smart! Like he told you, the night’s young.”
Starbuck shook his head in mock wonder. Then he lowered the hammer and slowly holstered the Colt. With a lame smile, he glanced at Jim Younger.
“Any friend of Alvina’s is a friend of mine.”
Younger grunted, and roughly pushed Alvina towards the door. Without a word, she led the way into the hall and they mounted the stairs to the second floor. Starbuck watched after them a moment, trying his damnedest to look unnerved and properly chastised. After a time his gaze shifted to the bar, and he found himself pinned by Cole Younger’s stare. He grinned weakly and walked forward, halting a pace away.
“No offence.” He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Floyd Hunnewell, and I shore don’t want no trouble with the Youngers.”
Cole ignored the handshake. “You’re pretty sudden with a gun.”
“Wisht I wasn’t sometimes.”
Cole regarded him evenly. “You keep pullin’ guns on people and somebody’s liable to give you a try.”
“Hope there’s no hard feelings.” Starbuck looked painfully embarrassed. “I’d shore admire to buy you a drink, Mr. Younger.”
“I guess not,” Cole said bluntly. “We’re sort of choosy about who we drink with.”
“Well, maybe another time. I wouldn’t want you to think I was unsociable, Mr. Younger.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Starbuck turned and walked back to the sofa. He was conscious of Ma Ferguson’s beady glare and an almost palpable sense of tension among the girls. With a hangdog expression, he took out the makings and began rolling a smoke. He made a show of nervously spilling tobacco, and took two tries to light a match. Yet inside he was laughing, positively jubilant.
By sheer outhouse luck, he’d made an impression the Youngers would never forget. The suddenness of his draw—his willingness to resort to gunplay—all that would stick in their minds. Then, too, there was Alvina. Even now, she was probably spilling his story to Jim Younger. And soon enough the word would circulate. Floyd Hunnewell was a wanted man, a horse thief with his eye on bigger things.
All in all, Starbuck thought he’d made a helluva start.
CHAPTER 10
“We’ve got ourselves a real stem-winder this time!”
“Why’s that?”
“Have a look and you’ll see.”
Bob Younger, recently returned from Minnesota, unfolded a hand-drawn map. The men were gathered around the dining table in the Hudspeth home. Jesse and Frank sat at opposite ends of the table, with Cole on one side and Bob, flanked by Jim, on the other. Bob spread the map in the middle of the table, and everyone leaned forward for a better look. A series of lines, radiating outward like spokes in a wheel, converged on a central spot. He pointed with his finger.
“Here’s Northfield. This wavy line’s the Cannon River. Whoever named it ought’ve called it the curly-cue. Crookedest sonovabitch you ever saw!”
Jesse glanced up. “What’s so important about a river?”
“Oh, nothin’ much.” Bob smiled lazily. “It just splits Northfield clean down the middle, that’s all.”
“You’re saying the town’s divided by the river?”
“See that mark?” Bob indicated two parallel lines. “That’s the Northfield Bridge. The river runs roughly north-south and the bridge crosses it east to west. Separates the town pretty near half and half.”
“So how’s the town laid out?”
“Well, it’s mostly houses on the west side of the bridge. Then you cross the bridge headed east and you come out smack-dab on the town square. That’s the main business centre, with a few stores and some such off on these side streets. On beyond that, there’s more houses.”
“Sounds like a fair-sized town.”
“You ain’t whistlin’ Dixie!” Bob’s mouth curled. “I had a few drinks in one of the bars, and got cosy with some of the locals. They told me the town’s pushin’ five thousand and still growin’ strong.”
No one s
poke for several moments. Cole Younger, already briefed by his brother, sat without expression, waiting. Frank shot him a sidewise glance, then quickly looked away. Jesse stared at the map a long while, his features unreadable. Then, almost to himself, he finally broke the silence.
“That’s considerable bigger than anything we ever tackled before.”
“Bigger haul, too!” Cole said stoutly. “Wait’ll Bob tells you about the bank.”
“What about it?”
Bob leaned back, thumbs hooked importantly in his suspenders. “Them locals I talked to was regular civic boosters. Told me the bank was just about the biggest in southern Minnesota. Hell, it’s even got a highfalutin name—the First National Bank!”
“Forget the name.” Jesse gave him a sour look. “How’s it fixed for money?”
“Plumb loaded!” Bob let loose a hoot of laughter. “Them barflies said it’s got a vault the size of a barn. And they wasn’t lyin’ either! I meandered over and had a look for m’self.”
“You checked out the bank?”
“Figgered I might as well. It was a Saturday, and the town was crawlin’ with farmers and their families. I just joined the crowd and waltzed in there nice as you please.”
“Tell him about the vault,” Cole prompted. “What you saw.”
“Well, now!” Bob snapped his suspenders and grinned. “The people was lined up three deep and depositin’ money hand over fist. Seems like Saturday is i the day all the farmers and folks from neighbourin’ towns does their business. You never saw nothin’ like it in all your born days!”
“The vault,” Jesse reminded him. “Did you get a look or not?”
“I did for certain! The door was standin’ wide open, and you could’ve drove a wagon through the inside with room to spare. Ever’ wall was lined with shelves and drawers, and the whole kit ’n’ caboodle was stacked knee deep with money. Goddamnedest sight I ever laid eyes on!”
“How much would you estimate?” Jesse eyed him keenly. “Just a rough calculation?”
