by Matt Braun
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I should hope not!” Crocker frowned uncertainly. “O’Brien alone will never convict him. Your testimony is vital.”
“I’ll be here,” Starbuck assured him. “You’ve got my word on it.”
Crocker took a bank draft from inside a folder on his desk. “I intended to give you this, anyway. A bonus, so to speak.” He leaned forward, extending the draft. “Perhaps it will also ensure your return for the trial.”
Starbuck accepted the draft, studying it a moment. Then he looked up with some surprise. “Ten thousand is mighty generous. I would’ve settled for what you owed me and no bones either way.”
“You earned it.” Crocker laughed a short, mirthless laugh. “Ten dead men at a thousand dollars a head seems to me a rare bargain.”
“Eleven.” Starbuck gave him a lopsided grin. “Course, the farmer didn’t rightly count. He just got in the way of a stray bullet.”
“Nonetheless, he was a member of the gang. It appears I owe you another thousand, Luke.”
“I’ll collect when I see you in the spring.”
“Done!” Crocker trumpeted. “Here’s my hand on it!”
Starbuck rose and shook hands. Then, after a parting word, he walked from the office. On his way to the elevator, he stuck the bank draft in his wallet and chuckled softly to himself. A thousand dollars a head was no bargain. He’d killed men for lots less, simply because they needed killing.
And in the end, someone had to kill them.
CHAPTER 18
There was a slight chill in the air and fog obscured the waterfront. Farther away, beyond the city, a wintry sunset slowly settled into the ocean.
Starbuck stood on the fantail of the ferry. His eyes were fixed upon distance, faraway and clouded. A roll-your-own was stuck in the corner of his mouth, and he smoked without haste. San Francisco, quickly falling astern, was lost within some deeper reflection. His thoughts were on men, and events.
On the whole, he felt he’d done a creditable job. The band of train robbers and their leader had been exterminated. Fung Jing Toy was dead, leaving Chinatown in turmoil. O’Brien, who most assuredly deserved killing, would nonetheless emerge from prison an old and withered shadow of the man who had once ruled the Barbary Coast. Christopher Buckley would be convicted and die an inmate, blind and ultimately enfeebled, in some dank prison cell. So what began as a routine assignment had ended with the downfall of Frisco’s underworld hierarchy. A certain pride in a job well done was by no means out of order.
Yet, with some cynicism, Starbuck saw the darker side as well. In his view, there was no logical progression in human affairs. There were merely tides of change borne on violence and an endless upheaval of political structures. The winners hung the losers—or carted them off to prison—and things went on much as they always had and always would. The evils of man, corruption and greed, were the single constant. And in one of the stranger quirks of life, a man bursting with virtue was often less esteemed than the spoilers. The voters, for all their sanctimonious tommyrot, understood greed and willfully sought those pleasures that were considered wicked and depraved. A reformer, therefore, lasted only a short while. The spoilers went on forever.
Viewed from that perspective, the only change wrought would be a change in names and faces. A new political kingpin would step into the void and quickly replace Buckley. Another thug would batter his fellow thugs into submission, and emerge the czar of the Barbary Coast. The tong wars of Chinatown would produce yet another vice lord, and the market in Oriental slave girls would continue to flourish. A whole new cast of characters would rise to ascendancy in Frisco’s underworld. And soon, from the waterfront to the Uptown Tenderloin, it would return to business as usual.
Still, all things considered, those were problems San Francisco would have to solve for itself. Starbuck saw his own role clearly, and moral judgments, while an engaging exercise, were not his bailiwick. He was a detective, not a civic crusader. He’d been hired to rout a gang of train robbers, and Red Ned Adair was dead.
Case closed.
From one standpoint, however, the case would never be closed. Over breakfast that morning, while reading the Examiner, he’d realized how fully the Frisco job had altered his own future. His testimony before the grand jury, and the attendant publicity, had resulted in his photo being splashed across the front pages of newspapers throughout the West. His anonymity, always an edge in past cases, was gone forever. Once a face in the crowd, he would now be known and recognized wherever he traveled. Coupled with his reputation, that loss of anonymity might shorten his life span considerably.
The upshot seemed equally clear to Starbuck. Now, more than ever, he must become a master of disguise. A man of a thousand faces, none of them his own. An undercover operative in every sense of the word. In short, a detective and a chameleon, all rolled into one.
Unbidden, the memory of Nell popped into his head. Since the night of her death, she had never been far from his thoughts. Not that he wanted to remember, or made any conscious effort to do so. Quite the contrary, the hurt and the shame were emotions yet to be reconciled. Whenever possible, he nudged all thought of her to some dark corner of his mind. Yet, despite his attempts to forget, she was always there. A vision too easily summoned, and a reminder of things lost forever.
With the clarity of hindsight, he understood he’d overplayed his hand. That night, when he’d left her alone at the Bella Union, he was supremely confident. No doubt existed that he would shortly capture Ned Adair and return to spirit her away from the Barbary Coast. He was cocky, altogether too sure of himself, and in his blind rush to get the job done, he had sadly underestimated Denny O’Brien. In effect, he had gambled Nell’s life on the assumption he could outsmart a pack of cutthroats and thieves who were already wise to his game. And he’d lost.
That was the part he couldn’t forget. To risk his own life was one thing. He was, after all, being paid to accept whatever risk the job entailed. To risk Nell’s life was another matter entirely. Her only stake in the game was a fabrication of lies and promises. In the end, of course, he would never have welched completely on their arrangement. He fully intended to take her away from the Barbary Coast and somehow relocate her in Colorado. Perhaps set her up in a respectable business of some sort, or at the very least secure her a job a cut above the Bella Union. Yet the fairy tale about his whorehouse empire, and their partnership in the enterprise, was unadulterated poppycock. However good his intentions, he had gulled her with a pipe dream that resulted in her death.
Looking back, he saw now that he’d made a fatal error in judgment. He should have gotten her out of the Bella Union, and once she was safe—only when she was safe—should he have gone off in search of Ned Adair. At the moment, time had seemed imperative, and unwittingly or not, he had elected to jeopardize her rather than jeopardize the mission. In retrospect, it was an unconscionable decision, all the worse because he’d compounded poor judgment with dumb planning. But then, as the old-timers were fond of saying, hindsight was no better than hind tit.
The memory of Nell would never leave him. Nor would he ever wholly absolve himself of her death. With time, he might learn to live with it. One day, perhaps, he might even find justification for the act. Her death, in the larger sense, had brought about the downfall of Frisco’s underworld leaders. But that, too, was more excuse than vindication, and in no way would it mitigate what he’d done. The thought of Nell Kimball would remain a burden, and one he deserved. By all rights, she belonged with him now, on her way to Colorado. He wouldn’t forget why he stood alone … and curiously lonely.
“Hullo, Starbuck.”
Knuckles Jackson halted beside him at the railing. Starbuck was instantly alert. A sudden chill settled over him, and it left a residue of uneasiness. His muscles tensed, every nerve stretched tight, yet his expression revealed nothing. He took a drag on his cigarette and tossed it over the side. Then he fixed Jackson with a stony sta
re.
“Let me guess,” he said evenly. “You’ve got business in Oakland, and you just happened to board the same ferry.”
“Not exactly.” Jackson’s mouth zigzagged in a gash-like smile. “I’ve got business, but not in Oakland. It’s with you.”
“I’m listening.”
Jackson returned his gaze steadily. “Yesterday, when you had that little talk with Mr. Buckley, he was tryin’ to be reasonable about things. He wanted me to make sure you got the message.”
“What message was that?”
“He don’t want you to show up for the trial.”
Starbuck’s eyes narrowed. “Guess I had wax in my ears yesterday. You’re saying that without me, there’s no one left but O’Brien. So you somehow manage to kill him, and when I fail to testify, there goes the prosecution’s case. All charges dismissed and Buckley walks away with a clean bill of health.”
Jackson gave him a wide, peg-toothed grin. “You’re pretty swift. I wasn’t too sure m’self, but the boss said you’d see the light. He figured a word to the wise and you wouldn’t come anywhere near that trial.”
“And if I do?”
“Too bad.”
“Too bad if I show up?”
“No.” Jackson touched the brim of his hat. “Too bad you asked the wrong question.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Starbuck caught a glint of metal on the upper deck. In that split second, he realized Jackson had a confederate. The signal, touching his hat, was prearranged. A signal to end it there.
All in a motion, Starbuck pulled the Colt and dropped to one knee. A slug thunked into the wooden railing, followed an instant later by a loud report. He saw a man on the upper deck, squinting at him down the barrel of a revolver. Thumbing the hammer, he extended the Colt to arm’s length and let go two rapid shots. The man stiffened, and a pair of bright red dots, centered chest high, appeared on his coat front. He stumbled, arms flapping like a scarecrow, and his legs suddenly collapsed beneath him. The gun went skittering from his hand and he keeled over backward, spread-eagled on the deck.
Starbuck twisted around. The hammer was cocked and his finger tightened on the trigger, then he stopped. Knuckles Jackson stood frozen at the rail, his hands empty and very prudently held in plain sight. His look was one of disbelief, and outright terror. The look of a vicious dog suddenly cornered by a boar grizzly.
Climbing to his feet, Starbuck’s expression turned immobile and dark. His eyes flashed with a cold glitter as he took a step closer. A grim line of rage, naked and revealed, tugged at his mouth.
“You sorry sonovabitch! I ought to kill you.”
“Nothin’ personal,” Jackson croaked. “I was just followin’ orders.”
“Then here’s an order for you. Buckley’s so keen on messages, I want you to carry one back to him.”
Jackson swallowed hard. “Yeah?”
“Tell him for me that I’ll see him at the trial.”
“I sure will, them very words.”
“One more thing,” Starbuck said softly. “Tell him if anything happens to Denny O’Brien, I will personally stop his clock, tick-tock and all. You got it?”
“I got it.”
“Then start swimming.”
“Swimming?” Jackson’s face went ashen. “What d’you mean?”
“You heard me.” Starbuck commanded. “Hit the water and make like a duck.”
“Jeezus Christ!” Jackson bawled. “You ain’t serious! I’d drown before I got halfway to shore.”
“I’m dead serious.” Starbuck wiggled the Colt with a menacing gesture. “You can haul ass over the side or die where you’re standing. Only make up your mind muy goddamn pronto! I’m through talking.”
Jackson opted for the water. He gingerly climbed over the railing and hung there a moment, staring down with a look of queasy horror. Then he leaped, his hat drifting lazily in the air, and hit the ferry’s wake with a leaden splash. An instant later he surfaced, spewing water, and bobbed about like a cork in a stormy sea. Arms flailing, he finally got himself oriented with the distant shore. He struck off at a slow crawl toward the city by the bay.
Starbuck grinned, watching from the fantail a long while. Then, not at all displeased with the outcome, he shoved the Colt in its holster and strode off in the direction of the passenger cabin. His step was jaunty, and he was quietly humming a Frisco ditty to himself.
The next time I saw darlin’ Nell
She was gussied up for a spree.
She had a pistol strapped ’round herself
And a banjo draped acrost her knee!
TOMBSTONE
TO THE ADAIRS
Dorothy and Harry
Eleanor and Bob
Peggy and Ham
THE DEVIL’S OWN …
Starbuck’s anger gave way to wonderment. Never a staunch believer, he nonetheless asked himself what god watched over these men. Or perhaps it wasn’t a god at all. Perhaps there was some special devil, a satanic force that protected such men from harm. Certainly no five men had ever had a closer brush with death. Within the space of three or four minutes, they had been on the receiving end of probably a hundred rifle slugs. Yet none of them had been killed, and the wounds they’d suffered were hardly worse than the nick of a dull razor. It defied understanding, and a thought occurred that left him momentarily chilled.
Perhaps, after all, Wyatt Earp wasn’t meant to be killed.
Perhaps he was unkillable.
PRAISE FOR SPUR AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR MATT BRAUN
“Matt Braun is head and shoulders above all the rest who would attempt to bring the gunmen of the Old West to life.”
—Terry C. Johnston, author of The Plainsman series
“Matt Braun has a genius for taking real characters out of the Old West and giving them flesh-and-blood immediacy.”
—Dee Brown, author of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This novel is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents relating to non-historical figures are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance of such non-historical figures, places or incidents to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
TOMBSTONE / THE SPOILERS
Tombstone copyright © 1981 by Matthew Braun.
The Spoilers copyright © 1981 by Matthew Braun.
Cover photo © Comstock Images.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-94781-X
EAN: 978-0-312-94781-1
Printed in the United States of America
Tombstone Pocket Books edition / April 1981
Tombstone Pinnacle edition / June 1985
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / September 2002
The Spoilers Pocket Books edition / April 1985
The Spoilers Pinnacle edition / August 1985
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / November 2002
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The gunfight at the OK Corral has become one of the more enduring myths in western folklore.
Yet, very few people realize that the OK Corral shootout was but a prelude. What occurred afterward represents one of the bloodiest chapters in the annals of the Old West.
Between October, 1881, and April, 1882, Tombstone became a battleground. A savage vendetta, triggered by the OK Corral gunfight, re
sulted in murder and assassination, and cold-blooded execution. There was never any question as to who did the killing, or why. There was controversy then as to Wyatt Earp’s motives, and to some extent, that controversy still exists. Stripped of fabrication and myth, however, several startling truths have survived the passage of time.
The record rather conclusively demonstrates that greed and corruption, abetted by political ambition, were the root causes of the bloodletting. Stage robbery was epidemic, and Wyatt Earp was thought to be heavily involved, the mastermind behind an outlaw gang. Wells, Fargo actually sent two undercover agents into Tombstone during this period. Their mission was to rout the gang and write an end to the bloodshed.
Luke Starbuck was uniquely qualified for such an assignment. His fame as a detective and manhunter was unrivaled in the Old West. The events depicted herein, and what he unearthed about Wyatt Earp, are for the most part documented fact. Some literary license has been taken regarding his method of operation and the actions of certain characters. All else is closer to the truth than the myth.
TOMBSTONE, through Luke Starbuck, tells the untold story.
CHAPTER 1
Starbuck angled across Larimer Street, one eye on the police station.
The Colt .45 stuffed in the waistband of his trousers gave him an uncomfortable moment. He was accustomed to enforcing the law, and the city ordinance against carrying firearms struck him as damnfool nonsense. His suit jacket concealed the gun, but he was still irked that progress had put him on the wrong side of the law.
