by Matt Braun
A moment later he vanished into the trees.
CHAPTER 3
The chase lasted almost three hours.
From the outset, it was apparent to Starbuck that he’d underestimated the gang leader. He had expected a furious dash, speed rather than deception. That view had been reinforced when the job was pulled scarcely five miles south of Los Altos. An hour’s hard ride, on a direct beeline to the hideout, was how he had visualized it upon taking the trail. He’d never been more wrong.
Instead of a beeline, the robbers zigzagged all over the countryside. A mile or so north of the holdup scene, they suddenly changed course and circled west of Los Altos. In the process, they criss-crossed several creeks, and at one point held their horses to mid-stream for something more than a half-mile. Then they switched directions and again turned due north. Their path, however, was meandering and uncannily deceptive.
At all times, the gang warily avoided open ground. While they never doubled back, they stuck to redwood forests and scrub-choked hills wherever possible. Upon encountering lowlands, they veered off into rocky defiles latticed with brushy undergrowth. Their general direction was always north, but the winding route followed a network of harsh and seemingly predetermined obstacles. Quite clearly, they knew the terrain and had developed evasive stratagems to throw off pursuit. To all but a skilled tracker, their trail would have been lost within a few miles.
Starbuck’s years as a manhunter served him well. Early on in his career, he had worked solely as a range detective. His principal targets were cattle rustlers and horse thieves, men schooled in plains lore and the artful dodges of hiding a trail. By necessity, he had become a tracker of surpassing skill, able to read signs practically invisible to the naked eye. Today, those skills permitted him to follow a crazy-quilt path that would have defeated ordinary lawmen. Several times he lost sight of the gang, but he never lost their trail. He stuck to their tracks like a born Apache.
An hour into the chase Starbuck realized he had committed another error. Having underestimated the gang leader, he had thoughtlessly compounded the problem by choosing the wrong mount. The thoroughbred mare was built for speed, not endurance. Unlike common saddle horses, she had no bottom, no staying power over the long haul. North of Los Altos she began to play out, and he had no choice but to conserve her stamina. His pace was slowed even further, and with each passing mile, he found himself falling farther behind. Once again, his ability to read sign and track on hard ground kept him in the race.
Yet, for all his skill, he barely avoided disaster in the end. Shortly after midday, he was tracking through a low range of mountains. His eyes were on broken twigs and crushed vegetation, and the sign indicated he was perhaps twenty minutes behind the gang. He topped a ridge, and spread out before him the mountains dropped off to a rolling plain. At the bottom of the ridge was a creek, bordered by trees, and on the far side was a farmhouse and a small barn. For a moment, looking down with surprise, nothing registered. Then he saw the corral, and the horses. And gathered outside the farmhouse, a group of men.
Suddenly it dawned on him that he was skylined. Wondering if he’d been seen, he sawed at the reins and whipped the mare back over the ridge. A short distance north, he dismounted and left the mare tied in a grove of trees. He walked quickly to the ridge, removing his hat, and went belly down. Below, not a hundred yards away, he had a commanding view of the farmhouse. The men were still bunched near the front door, and there was no apparent sign of alarm. He thought it was his lucky day. Goddamned lucky!
A closer look confirmed that the chase had indeed ended. He spotted the red-haired gang leader, clearly a standout even at a distance. The men were gathered around a water pump, taking turns sluicing off the grime of a long and dusty ride. Apparently in good humor, their leader was gesturing and talking in a loud voice. The sound of laughter carried distinctly to the ridge top.
Starbuck’s attention was abruptly drawn to the corral. He saw a man, dressed in bib overalls, forking hay to the horses. A quick count verified that he was not one of the original seven who had robbed the train. Upon closer inspection, Starbuck realized there was more to the farm than he’d seen at first glance. Beyond the house, several acres were fenced and planted with a variety of vegetables. Off in the distance, a herd of some twenty dairy cows grazed placidly in the noonday sun. No hardscrabble operation, the farm had a look of substance and prosperity. The abundance of produce, and the presence of milk cows, meant only one thing. There was a marketplace nearby, probably no more than a few hours’ ride away.
A woman suddenly stepped through the doorway of the house and called to the men. She wore a checkered apron, and from her scolding manner, Starbuck sensed she was summoning the men to a hot meal. For the first time, he noticed the mail sacks piled beside the door. As the gang trooped inside, the burly redhead and another man each hefted one of the sacks. From all appearances, more than a hot meal would be divvied up over the dinner table.
Something bothered Starbuck about the setup. A dairy farmer and his wife seemed unlikely accomplices for a band of train robbers. Nor was the farm itself the hideout he’d expected to find. One somehow didn’t dovetail with the other.
The thought prompted another question. He wondered where the hell he was. He had some general idea, for he knew the chase had carried him far north of Los Altos. But he had no notion of where it had ended, or exactly how far north.
He pulled the map from his inside coat pocket and spread it on the ground. Turning, he studied the mountain range, noting rises in elevation and dominant peaks. With one eye on the terrain, he slowly scanned the map. Suddenly he blinked and his finger jabbed at a spot that marked the flatland below. The farm was on the western slope of the San Bruno Mountains, roughly in the center of the peninsula. The hairpin bend in the creek pinpointed his precise location.
He was less than ten miles south of San Francisco.
The sheer audacity of it was stunning. No one would believe a gang of train robbers would operate that close to a major city. Nor would anyone suspect that a tranquil dairy farm was an outlaw hideout. It took the cake for nerve, and it proved that there was always an exception to any rule. The red-haired gang leader not only had a big set of balls; he had brains, as well. The whole operation had been planned with a sort of tactical genius.
On impulse, Starbuck was struck by another of his hunches. The farmhouse was a rendezvous, not a hideout. A meeting place and a way station for the horses. A stopover for the gang before they rode on to somewhere else.
He smiled, nodding to himself, and returned the map to his coat pocket. Then he settled down to wait.
A short time later Starbuck got still another surprise. The train robbers, followed by the farmer, emerged from the house. Yet they were now an altogether different group of men. Their workclothes had been exchanged for city suits and bowler hats; the transformation was startling. No longer was there any resemblance to the gang that had stopped the morning train.
The barn doors were opened and two carriages were rolled outside. A team of bays and a team of chestnuts were then led from the barn and hitched to the carriages. Four men climbed aboard the first carriage and took off along a wagon trail that snaked westward. The gang leader and the others waited, talking quietly amongst themselves, until some ten minutes had passed. Then they stepped into the second carriage, waving to the farmer, and drove off in the same direction. To all appearances, they might have been businessmen or land speculators, or even a crew of Bible salesmen canvassing the countryside. By no stretch of the imagination would anyone connect them to the train holdup.
Starbuck quickly checked his map. He located the wagon trail and saw that it intersected a main road, running north-south along the peninsula. The only other road, some miles to the west, skirted the coastline. There were fishing villages along the ocean, and a few small settlements dotted the bay side of the peninsula; all the land in between appeared to be sparsely populated, mainly farms. The relative isolation
of the area merely enhanced his respect for the gang. Their rendezvous point, though close to San Francisco, was nonetheless remote. The concept was masterful and the execution flawless. The work of a man who knew his business, a professional.
Waiting until the carriage was out of sight, Starbuck mounted the mare and rode north. He forded the stream a mile or so above the farmhouse, then turned due west. Presently he crested a rise of ground and spotted the main road. He walked the mare to a grove of trees, staying hidden in the shadows, and rolled himself a smoke. Before he had time to finish his cigarette, the carriage appeared from the south. The gang’s destination, much as he’d suspected, was San Francisco. Allowing them a five-minute lead, he left the trees and reined the mare toward the road.
He easily kept the carriage in sight.
Once inside the city limits, Starbuck was able to close the gap. By then it was late afternoon, and he was just another horseman on streets clogged with traffic. He had no fixed plan in mind, but he’d set himself a task that was essential to any further action. Before the night was out, he meant to establish the gang leader’s identity.
The carriage led him across town, to the intersection of Jackson and Sansome. There, the team and carriage were dropped off at a livery stable. He dismounted, hitching the mare outside a saloon on the opposite corner. The four men in the first carriage were nowhere in evidence, but that gave him no reason for concern. After a robbery, very likely wearing money belts stuffed with cash, it figured they would scatter. Shortly, the thought was confirmed when the burly redhead talked with the two men a moment, then waved and walked off. He turned north on Sansome.
Starbuck followed, strolling casually along the opposite side of the street. The sidewalks were thronged with passersby, and he readily blended into the crowd. Having spent three days in San Francisco, he’d gotten his bearings, and the direction of the surveillance came as no great surprise. The gang leader was moving at a brisk pace toward the Barbary Coast.
A hellhole, infamous throughout the world, the Barbary Coast was not for those of faint heart. On the bay side, it was bounded by the waterfront and Telegraph Hill, and extended several blocks inland along Pacific and Broadway streets. A wild carnival of depravity and crime, the area was devoted to dancehalls and brothels, gambling casinos and groggeries, and sinister crimping joints where sailors were drugged and shanghaied for brutal voyages at sea. Vice and debauchery were the district’s stock-in-trade.
Local legend attributed the name to the African coastline of earlier notoriety. Whatever its ancestory, the Barbary Coast transformed the dreams of sailors and landlubbers alike into wicked, and sometimes deadly, reality. On average, there were several murders a night, with seamen the most common victims. After voyages lasting two to four years, the sailors were ripe for women, alcohol, and some of the gamier pursuits known to man. The Opera Comique, a dive billing carnal entertainment, presented live shows involving feats of copulation that ranged from acrobatic couples to onstage orgies. Not to be outdone, the Boar’s Head staged a show-stopper in which the buxom star was mated on alternate nights to a Shetland pony and bull mastiff. No man, however low his tastes, failed to get his money’s worth on the Barbary Coast.
Starbuck trailed the gang leader to the Bella Union. A somewhat higher-class establishment, it was located at an intersection humorously dubbed Murder Corner. Offering all things to all men, it provided women, gaming tables, and risque stage shows. A billboard out front ballyhooed the attractions inside:
PLAIN TALK AND BEAUTIFUL GIRLS!
Lovely Tresses! Lovely Lips! Buxom Forms!
At the
BELLA UNION.
And Such Fun!
If You Don’t Want to Risk Both Optics
SHUT ONE EYE.
The batwing doors opened onto a large barroom and gaming parlor. Beyond the bar was a spacious theater, with an orchestra pit and a stage ablaze with footlights. The floor was jammed with tables, and a horseshoe balcony was partitioned into ornate, curtained boxes. Songs and dances were performed, pandering to the profane nature of the clientele, and the atmosphere fell somewhere between licentious and obscene. After their acts, the girls mingled with the customers in a crush of jiggling breasts and fruity buttocks. The sofas in the boxes were reserved for private entertainment, and along with the mandatory bottle of champagne, added greatly to the income of all concerned. A pretty little danseuse from the show went for a ten spot, and chilled bubbly doubled the tab. The girl kept half the charge for her services and the balance went to the house.
Sunset was still an hour away, but the Bella Union was already jam-packed. Starbuck shouldered a place at the bar, wedging himself in between a bowlegged sailor and a whiskery miner. He ordered rye and kept one eye on the red-haired robber, who had taken a position at the end of the bar. A close-up look revealed that the man was ugly as a toad, with pockmarked features, nut-brown eyes, and freckles almost the exact color of his hair. Starbuck committed his face to memory.
So far the gang leader had spoken to no one but the bartender. He stood with his elbows hooked over the counter and watched the show with a vacant expression. Onstage, a screeching troupe of dancers was romping through a version of the French can-can. Their frilly drawers and black mesh stockings exploded into view as they went into the finale and flung themselves rump first to the floor in la split. Then, screaming and tossing their skirts, they leaped to their feet and raced offstage as the curtain dropped. The spectators rewarded them with thunderous applause, which prompted a caterwauling curtain call. Then, awaiting the next act, everyone went back to drinking.
On his second shot of rye, Starbuck saw the gang leader straighten up and nod to someone pushing through the crowd. The man who joined him was stocky and muscular, with a square, tough face and a handlebar mustache. He was dressed like a dandy and carried himself with the cocky poise of a prizefighter. He spoke to the gang leader, who beamed a wide grin, and rapidly bobbed his head. The transformation in the train robber was immediate, and curiously out of character. He looked not just respectful, but somehow servile. A hardass bandit suddenly turned boot-licker.
Starbuck signaled for another drink. While the barkeep was pouring, he ducked his chin toward the end of the counter. “Shore wouldn’t wanna tangle with that pair.”
The barkeep followed his gaze, and chuckled. “You’d sure as Christ regret it if you did, cowboy.”
“Why? They somebody special?”
“Well, the one with the mustache is Denny O’Brien. Owns the Bella Union and half the Coast. The other one’s Red Ned Adair, and claims he’s meaner’n tiger spit. For my money, they both are.”
“I don’t reckon I’d care to argue it either way.”
“You’ve got lots of company, cowboy.”
The barkeep hustled off, and Starbuck silently repeated the names to himself. Then he saw the one named O’Brien turn and walk toward a staircase near the entranceway to the theater. The gang leader downed his drink and quickly followed along. Together, they mounted the stairs and disappeared from view.
Starbuck had a visceral instinct for the truth, some sixth sense for divining what lay beneath the surface. He was suddenly struck by the thought that the operation was bigger than he’d suspected. Quite probably an organized mob, with Denny O’Brien calling the shots and Red Ned Adair pulling the holdups. Something told him it was so, and he’d learned long ago never to go against his instincts.
He decided it was time to go undercover.
CHAPTER 4
Early the next morning Starbuck set out to explore San Francisco. His knowledge of the city was thus far general, and what he needed now was specifics. Every town, much like a timepiece, had inner working forever hidden to the casual observer. He meant to determine Denny O’Brien’s place within the underworld mechanism.
Last night, upon leaving the Bella Union, his thoughts were disjointed and without order. He knew essentially what must be done, but he hadn’t yet decided how it would be done. With some st
ealth, he had retrieved the mare and left her tied in the courtyard of Crocker’s mansion. All the way back down Nob Hill, he had puzzled over the new turn of events. By the time he reached his hotel, he’d arrived at what seemed a logical first step. Before going undercover, he had to establish who was who on the Barbary Coast, and where the owner of the Bella Union fitted into the larger picture. Only then could he develop a workable approach to Denny O’Brien.
Today, like a wolf prowling unfamiliar territory, he made a personal reconnaissance of downtown San Francisco. The sporting crowd seldom awakened before noon, so he spent the morning on a sightseeing tour. He crisscrossed the Barbary Coast, gaining a sense of direction and a feel for the lay of the land. The seedier dives along the waterfront were of little interest, but the larger establishments, located primarily on Pacific and Broadway, held his attention. These were the joints that competed directly with the Bella Union, and he catalogued them for future reference. In the course of his wanderings, he gave Chinatown a brief once-over, then turned uptown. There, somewhat to his surprise, he found still another vice district. Though tightly contained, and considerably smaller than the Barbary Coast, it had the look of flourishing nightlife. He thought to himself that it merited further investigation.
By noontime, he’d seen enough to satisfy his immediate needs. The saloons were open, and he made his way back to the Barbary Coast. He picked a watering hole directly across from the Bella Union, one with a crowd of heavy drinkers and careless talkers. A schooner of beer entitled him to a free lunch, and he helped himself to cold cuts and cheese from the trencherman’s counter. Then he bellied up to the bar and went to work.
A master of subtle interrogation, Starbuck had the knack of engaging total strangers in conversation. He was a good listener, and seemed raptly interested in the other man’s opinion. He also played on their vanity, professing ignorance of the subject at hand, and got them to reveal more than they realized. With adroit prompting, he kept them talking and guilefully steered the conversation along the course he’d planned. When they parted, he had drained them dry of information while saying almost nothing about himself. He left them full of boozy good cheer and a profound sense of their own importance.
