Manhunter / Deadwood

by Matt Braun

  Wallace Murphy watched until he disappeared into the night.

  Events of subsequent days proved both frustrating and tantalising. Starbuck’s manhunt took him on a tortuous path full of blind ends and false leads. Yet he never entirely lost the trail. Nor was he discouraged by the snaillike pace of the search.

  The trail led him first to Mankato, some fifty miles southwest of Northfield. From there, always inquiring about two bearded men on horseback, he tracked the James brothers to Sioux City. Located on the Iowa-Nebraska border, the town represented a point of departure for either Indian Territory or Missouri. A major trade centre, the sheer size of the town also delayed his progress.

  Finally, after several days of investigation, he discovered that a bearded man had swapped two saddle horses, along with a hundred dollars cash, for a wagon and team. The switch to a wagon left him puzzled; all the more so when he was unable to turn up a new trail. Exhaustive inquiry at last provided the answer. A wagon, with one clean-shaven man driving, and another on a pallet in the back, had crossed the border into Nebraska. He concluded that one of the brothers, probably Frank James, had been wounded in the shootout at Northfield. The switch to a wagon indicated his condition had worsened over the gruelling flight.

  By shaving their beards, the outlaws had cost Starbuck precious time. Once he uncovered the ruse, he set out in hot pursuit; but in the end, their lead was too great. Some two weeks after the chase began, he rode into Lincoln, Nebraska. There, in a maddening turnabout, the trail simply petered out. A day was consumed before he learned the wagon and team had been traded to a livestock dealer. The James boys had departed on horseback three days before his arrival, and no clue to the direction they’d taken. He was stymied.

  There was, nonetheless, sensational news regarding the Youngers. The governor of Minnesota had declared a reward of $1,000 per man—dead or alive—and thereby sparked the most massive manhunt in the state’s history. For the past two weeks, the outlaws had eluded capture by hiding out in the wilderness maze of southern Minnesota. Then, trapped by a posse, they had taken refuge in a dense swamp. The posse, led by Marshal Wallace Murphy, surrounded them, and a furious gun battle ensued. When the smoke cleared, the Youngers had been shot to ribbons. Bob had suffered three wounds, one of which shattered his jaw. Jim, with a slug through his right lung, had a total of five wounds. Cole, miraculously, had survived eleven wounds, none of which struck a vital organ. The fourth robber, identified as Charlie Pitts, had been killed in the shootout. The Younger brothers, after being loaded into farm wagons, had been carted to the town of Madelia. There, under a doctor’s care, they were sequestered in the local hotel.

  Upon reading the account in a newspaper, Starbuck boarded the next northbound train out of Lincoln. The trip, with a brief layover in Sioux City, consumed the better part of forty-eight hours. On the evening of the second day, bone-weary and covered with train soot, he arrived in Madelia. He inquired at the depot and learned that the Youngers were being held under guard at the Flanders Hotel. A short walk uptown brought him to the hotel, which was located in the heart of a small business district. He found Wallace Murphy seated in the lobby.

  The marshal let out a whoop, amazed to see him and clearly delighted. For the next few minutes they swapped stories, with Starbuck offering congratulations and Murphy extending words of encouragement. On that note, Starbuck asked to speak privately with Cole Younger. At a dead end, he was hopeful that Younger would provide a lead to the whereabouts of Jesse James. There was no love lost between the two outlaws, and with proper interrogation, he thought Younger might be persuaded to talk. Murphy quickly agreed, escorting him to a room upstairs. A deputy, seated inside with the wounded outlaw, was ordered to wait in the hall. Starbuck, prepared for a hostile reception, entered alone.

  Cole Younger was swathed in bandages. Still in some pain, and doped up with laudanum, he was staring groggily at the ceiling. Approaching the bed, Starbuck thought he’d never seen a better example of death warmed over.

  “Evening, Cole.”

  Younger rolled his head sideways on the pillow. He batted his eyes, trying to bring Starbuck into focus. Then, somewhere deep in his gaze, a pinpoint of recognition surfaced.

  “I know you.” His mouth lifted in an ashen grin. “You was standin’ on the corner … that day in Northfield. Saw you shootin’ at Jesse and the other boys.”

  “Not the others,” Starbuck said softly. “Just Jesse.”

  “Yeah?” Younger sounded pleased. “Well, I’m sorry to say you missed. The bastard leads a charmed life.”

  On impulse, Starbuck took a gamble. “I sort of guessed you two might’ve had a falling out.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Easy to figure,” Starbuck said with a shrug. “Bob was wounded and slowing you down. Jesse split up so him and Frank could make better time. Wasn’t that how it happened?”

  “Shit!” Cole said viciously. “You don’t know the half of it. He wanted to kill Bob and leave him! I told him he’d have to kill me first.”

  “Wasn’t Frank wounded too?”

  “Yeah, but he was able to ride. After Jesse and me had words, they took off. Sonovabitch! All he ever cared about was savin’ his own neck.”

  “You reckon he’s headed for Belle’s place … Younger’s Bend?”

  Younger peered at him, one eye sharp and gleaming. “Who the hell are you anyway? How’d you know about Belle?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve got a powerful urge to see Jesse dead.”

  “Join the club.” Younger gave him a ghastly smile. “You ain’t gonna find him at Belle’s, though. She wouldn’t give him the time of day—not without me along!”

  “How about Ruston’s spread?” Starbuck watched his eyes. “Down on the Pecos?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ you don’t know, is there? Only thing is, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. Tom Ruston swears by Frank, but he’s like me when it comes to Jesse. He wouldn’t piss on him if his guts was on fire!”

  “You tell me, then. Where should I look?”

  “Why should I?” Younger said hoarsely. “You got Pinkerton written all over you.”

  “Guess again,” Starbuck said without guile. “I was hired by someone who wants a personal score settled. It’s got nothing to do with you or your brothers … only Jesse.”

  Younger regarded him a moment, then nodded. “Without Belle, Jesse’s got no place to run this time. So I’d say your best bet’s Clay County. He’s partial to his wife, and sooner or later he’ll show.” His lips curled in a cunning, wrinkled grin. “Watch the bitch and the dog won’t be far behind.”

  Starbuck’s instinct told him he’d heard the truth. He thanked the outlaw and wished him a speedy recovery. Then, as he turned towards the door, Younger stopped him with one last remark.

  “Damnedest thing! You put me in mind of another feller I used to know. Met him once in a whorehouse!”

  “swell, Cole, I guess that just goes to show you. It’s a small world, after all.”

  The door opened and closed, and Starbuck was gone. Younger thought about it for a time, his brow screwed up in a frown. At last, no student of irony, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the laudanum.

  CHAPTER 16

  Starbuck’s return from Minnesota was anything but triumphant. In a very real sense, he had travelled full circle, and the knowledge did little to improve his humour. Still, like a crucible enveloped in flame, Northfield had tested his character. He emerged with a kind of steely resolve.

  Now, more than ever before, he was determined to kill Jesse James. No longer a job, it was a personal matter. A contest between hunter and hunted.

  A day’s layover in St. Louis merely strengthened his resolve. Covering all bets, he first sent a wire to the U.S. marshal in Forth Smith. He requested verification as to whether or not a pair of strangers, both white men, had been reported at Younger’s Bend. The reply was prompt and unequivocal. Belle Starr and her husband had been arrested and
tried for horse stealing. Found guilty, they had been sentenced by Judge Parker to one year in prison. Only yesterday, under heavy guard, the Starrs had entrained for the federal penitentiary in Detroit. Informants in the Cherokee Nation reported that Younger’s Bend was now deserted.

  Upon reflection, Starbuck decided to scratch Indian Territory from his list. With Belle Starr in prison, there was small likelihood the James boys would seek refuge at Younger’s Bend. The chance seemed even more remote considering the nature of Belle’s in-laws. The reward for Jesse and Frank now totalled $10,000—and old Tom Starr might find the temptation too great to resist. Trusting no one, least of all a renegade Cherokee, Jesse would give Younger’s Bend a wide berth. As for Belle, Starbuck was mildly amused. He thought the guards at the federal prison were in for a rough time. Where the lady bandit was concerned, anything that wore pants was fair game.

  Otis Tilford was Starbuck’s next stop. He gave the banker a blow-by-blow account of the Northfield raid and the ensuing manhunt. He made no attempt to spare himself, and freely admitted he’d been snookered by the outlaw leader. Oddly enough, Tilford seemed encouraged. The Northfield incident, he pointed out, had decimated the James-Younger gang. Which was a good deal more than either the law or the Pinkertons had ever accomplished. By virtue of that fact, Jesse James had lost his aura of invincibility. And that made him vulnerable as never before. Tilford heartily approved Starbuck’s immediate plan. A staked-out goat, he observed, rarely ever failed to entice a man-eating tiger into the open. Zee James seemed the perfect bait.

  After their meeting, Starbuck caught the next train for Kansas City. There he collected his suitcase from the depot storage room, and once more checked into a hotel. A dye job on his hair, added to the spit-curled moustache, turned the trick. He emerged from the hotel in the guise of Floyd Hunnewell. Then, stowing his suitcase once again, he reclaimed his horse from the livery stable. Late that evening, only three days after departing Minnesota, he entered Clay County. His destination was Ma Ferguson’s bordello.

  Alvina treated his arrival somewhat like a homecoming. After nearly a month’s absence, she’d lost any hope he would ever return. She was both amazed and overjoyed, and she smothered him with a childlike affection that was almost embarrassing. Starbuck spun a windy tale which left even Ma Ferguson enthralled. Over the past several weeks, he related, he’d stolen a herd of horses in Kansas, trailed them to Montana, and sold the lot for top dollar. His bankroll was replenished—big enough to choke a horse, he told them with a wry grin—and he was ready to celebrate. Ma Ferguson beamed mightily and the party got under way. Like the prodigal son returned, nothing was too good for Floyd Hunnewell.

  Somewhere in the course of the festivities, Alvina broke the sad news about the debacle at Northfield. Starbuck was properly stunned, expressing just the right touch of morbid curiosity and maudlin regret. All of Clay County, Alvina revealed, was in a state of mourning, absolutely devastated. With a shudder, almost weepy, she told him to thank his lucky stars. Had he been accepted into the gang, he too would have ridden hell-bent for Northfield. And got his ass shot off—just like the Youngers!

  Starbuck thought it a damn fine joke. Yet he nodded solemnly, and agreed that he was indeed a mighty lucky fellow. He’d count his blessings, and stick to what he knew best, horse stealing. Alvina squealed with delight and made him cross his heart. So he did, and she sealed their pact with another syrupy kiss. Then she hauled him off to bed and welcomed him home in her own inimitable style.

  That night, the waiting game began.

  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

  Starbuck went away with his head buzzing. Everything fitted, down to the woman’s physical description of T. J. Jackson. Yet the facts, like loose parts of a puzzle, made no sense. Assuming Miller had it correct—that Jackson was in truth Jesse James—then the sudden departure indicated panic. The natural question was why—after spiriting his wife and children into Kansas City—would the outlaw take flight. One day there, the next day gone, and seemingly without rhyme or reason. The whole thing beggared explanation.

  That night, upon returning to Ma Ferguson’s, Starbuck got both the explanation and the reason. Apparently Ed Miller had been wagging his tongue all over Clay County. A braggart, desperate to impress everyone he knew, he’d talked himself to death. Only that afternoon, Jesse James had called him out of his home and shot him down on his own doorstep. The killing, performed openly and in broad daylight, was a clear-cut warning. Those who spoke out of turn would speak no more—forever.

  Starbuck found himself in the same old cul-de-sac. He’d been thwarted again—seemingly at the very last moment—by a queer juxtaposition of poor timing and bad luck. Worse, he’d lost his pipeline into the back-woodsy world of Clay County. Ed Miller, albeit unwittingly, had proved his most knowledgeable source to date. Now, with the pipeline shut off, he had no choice but to wait and keep his ear to the ground. Yet h
is patience was wearing thin, and the waiting sawed on his nerves.

  For a week or so, Starbuck brooded around Ma Fersuson’s. Alvina thought he was saddened by the death of Ed Miller, and he did nothing to dissuade her of the notion. In his view, no man was unkillable; though he was frank to admit some men possessed the proverbial longevity of a cat. Certainly Jesse James had expended nine lives and more over the years. Still, the outlaw was now encumbered by wife and children, a grave tactical error. A family reduced a man’s mobility, and tended to anchor him closer to homeground. Some inner voice told Starbuck to sit tight. Clay County was the lodestone, and he felt reasonably confident Jesse James hadn’t run far. Sooner or later, almost inevitably, the gossip mill would chum to life. And someone would talk.

  The break virtually dropped into his lap. On a mild spring evening, a man unknown to Starbuck walked through the door of the bordello. He was big and fleshy, with the meaty nose and rheumy eyes of a hard drinker. Yet there was nothing to distinguish him from the other customers, and he normally wouldn’t have rated a second glance. His furtive manner was the tip-off, and when he displayed no interest in the girls, that cinched it. Starbuck pegged him for a man on the dodge, with something or someone close on his back trail. And plainly terrified by the prospect.

  After a couple of drinks, the man approached Ma Ferguson. She listened a moment, then levered herself out of her armchair and followed him into the hallway. A heated exchange ensued, with the man pleading and the madam of the house stubbornly shaking her head. An icy realist, Ma Ferguson was a woman of little charity. She provided a service, at a fair price, and studiously avoided any personal involvement with her clientele. The man was clearly asking a favour, and from Ma Ferguson’s reaction, he’d picked the wrong whorehouse. His argument took on strength when he fished a wad of bills out of his pocket and pressed them into her hand. She wavered, locked in a struggle with avarice, and greed finally prevailed. The man was shown to a room upstairs; but the price apparently included only lodging. None of the girls was sent to join him.