Tombstone / The Spoilers

by Matt Braun

  Starbuck turned from the mirror, smiling. “How do I look?”

  “Very spiffy,” she said pertly. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Today’s the day we put Holliday on ice.”

  Her voice went husky and something odd happened to her face. “Will there be trouble?”

  “Let’s hope so!” he said with great relish. “I’d welcome the chance to put Holliday away for keeps.”

  “You—” She hesitated, looking at him seriously. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  He made a small gesture of dismissal. “It’s in the bag! You get yourself gussied up and we’ll go out on the town tonight.”

  She smiled uncertainly. “I’ll be ready.”

  “Why don’t you write Mattie another letter? Tell her Holliday’s in the cooler and her no-account husband is next on the list. Maybe that’ll bring her around.”

  “It’s no use,” she admitted unhappily. “Mattie won’t change. She’ll destroy herself before she would betray him.”

  “Damn shame.” He met her eyes, but the words came hard. “She’s too good a woman to waste herself in the cribs. Wish she’d listen to reason.”

  Her lips trembled. “I’m worried about you, not Mattie. It frightens me … what you’re doing … all of it.”

  “Hey, none of that!”

  He walked to the bed and took her chin in his hand. He kissed her softly on the mouth, looked deep into her eyes. “Come on, now, no tears allowed! Let me see a smile.”

  “Yes, sir.” She smiled a sad clown smile. “But don’t you dare give him an even break.”

  “That’s the ticket!”

  He grinned and quickly crossed the room. At the door, he jammed his hat on his head and gave her a reassuring wink. After he’d gone, she sat for a long while with her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were veined with fear.

  Outside the hotel Starbuck turned onto Larimer Street. It was a sunny morning with a hint of spring in the air. The fine weather made his mood all the more chipper, and he stepped along at a brisk pace. He was whistling softly under his breath.

  The long wait, like Denver’s prolonged winter storms, had at last drawn to a close. Six weeks ago, upon arriving from Trinidad, he had parted with Holliday at the train station. Since then, though they had seen each other only rarely, he had managed to keep tabs on the lean gambler. The Wells, Fargo agent at Gunnison, sworn to secrecy, also kept him posted on Earp. Time had vindicated his hunch, and it soon became apparent he had no reason for concern. True to form, Earp had designs on Gunnison. He was operating a faro game and slowly forming political alliances.

  Starbuck, meanwhile, had set the wheels in motion on his latest plan. Arizona authorities were informed of Earp’s whereabouts, and it was suggested that Colorado would act favorably on extradition papers. The plan was well received, but very quickly developed into a political tug-of-war. Sheriff John Behan of Tombstone and Sheriff Bob Paul of Tucson were both determined to be the man who returned Wyatt Earp to Arizona. The battlelines were drawn at the territorial capital, and shortly degenerated into a stalemate. The credit for capturing Earp seemed somehow more important than the act itself.

  Only last night word had arrived that a solution was near at hand. The details were as yet unknown, but Starbuck took it as a positive sign. Working with Wells, Fargo, he had concocted an elaborate scheme to jail Holliday. With that done, he would then travel to Gunnison and maintain a close surveillance on Earp. Once the extradition papers were served, the net would close and the law would take its course. Earp and Holliday would rapidly, if reluctantly, he hustled aboard a train bound for Arizona.

  On the stroke of ten, Starbuck entered the Slaughterhouse Saloon. Always punctual, Perry Mallan was waiting at a table in the rear. An ox of a man, Mallan was heavyset, with shoulders like a singletree. He looked tough as nails, and perfectly suited to the Slaughterhouse, the rawest busthead dive in all of Denver.

  In truth, Mallan was a gentle soul, a frustrated actor, with a secret yearning to tread the boards. Lacking the stature to play Hamlet, he practiced instead the ancient art of chicanery. He was a swindler and confidence man nonpareil, and his performances had drawn rave reviews from every police department throughout the midwest. Starbuck had imported him from Chicago early last week.

  Mallan was nursing a warm beer. Starbuck ordered one of the same, and waited until the bartender returned to his station behind the counter. Then he smiled, searching Mallan’s face.

  “All set for the big day?”

  “You bet’cha,” Mallan blustered. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  “Got your papers?”

  Mallan patted his coat pocket. He had a forged document, provided by Starbuck, which identified him as a Utah peace officer. He also had an outstanding murder warrant for one John H. “Doc” Holliday. There was a slight hitch in his voice when he spoke.

  “You’re sure the bulls won’t tumble?”

  “Dead sure,” Starbuck affirmed. “Holliday’s like a black-eye to Denver. The police will jump at the chance to put him behind bars.”

  Mallan looked worried. “I’m still not too keen on the next part. What if they release him to me? I’d play billy-hell taking him back to Utah.”

  “I’ve told you a dozen times. Holliday will hire himself a lawyer, and the whole thing’s certain to get bogged down in the courts. You just stick to your story and tell everyone you’ve requested extradition papers.”

  “That’s what bothers me. Somebody could get nosy and check with the Utah authorities. Then I’d be left holding the bag.”

  “No chance,” Starbuck assured him. “It’ll take weeks, maybe even a month, before anyone gets wise. By then, you’ll be long gone and a helluva lot richer.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Mallan took a long draught from his beer stein. Starbuck leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched out before him. A moment passed while he studied the con man with an appraising look. For the past week they had rehearsed until Mallan had the story letter perfect. But now he seemed to have developed a case of the last minute jitters. At length, Starbuck leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  “You got your pitch down pat?”

  “Oh, sure,” Mallan said hoarsely. “I could spiel it off backwards.”

  “Anything left to iron out? Now’s the time to do it.”

  “No.” Mallan sounded uncertain. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “How ready is that?” Starbuck asked in a low voice. “You’re not getting cold feet on me, are you?”

  “Not on your tintype!” Mallan said indignantly. “I’m too old a hand for that. Nerves like a rock!”

  “Cut the crap!” Starbuck said curtly. “Something’s bothering you. Let’s hear it, and don’t give me any song and dance!”

  “Well—” Mallan shrugged, his mouth downturned in a grimace. “All right, I’ll be square with you, Luke. I’m a grifter, not a gunman! I’ve got the sweats about Holliday.”

  Starbuck waved the objection aside. “For Chrissake, you’ll have the drop on him! What could go wrong?”

  “Good question.” Mallan gave him a hangdog look. “What if he decides to make a fight of it? I’ve never shot a gun in my life, much less a man. It’s not my style!”

  “Leave that to me,” Starbuck said calmly. “I’ll back your play straight down the line, and I don’t miss. If he even looks cross-eyed, he’s a dead man.”

  “I get the feeling you’d like that.”

  “Let’s just say I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”

  “Fair enough,” Mallan said with a lame smile. “I’ll be there on the dot of six. You just keep your eyes peeled in case he gets testy.”

  “Like you said,” Starbuck noted dryly. “It’s a piece of cake.”

  His beer untouched, Starbuck rose and walked toward the door. Mallan watched him a moment, wondering vaguely how the night would end. Then, with an unsteady hand, he quaffed the mug of beer in a single gulp. />
  Shortly before six, Perry Mallan stepped through the door of the Criterion. One of the Denver’s plusher establishments, the Criterion was a high-class saloon and gambling casino. The front of the room was devoted to assorted games of chance, and several poker tables were ranged along the rear wall. Doc Holliday was seated at the center table.

  Mallan exchanged a glance with Starbuck, who was standing idly at the end of the bar. Then he moved through the crowd and walked directly to the poker table. He halted on an angle that gave Starbuck a clear field of fire. Without hesitation, he pulled a bulldog pistol from inside his coat and leveled it on Holliday. The other players froze, their eyes glued on the gun.

  “John H. Holliday!” Mallan said forcefully. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Arrest!” Holliday croaked, like a whorehouse parrot learning a new obscenity. “On what charge?”

  “The murder of Charles Dunwood.”

  “Who?” Holliday glared at him in baffled fury. “I don’t know anybody named Dunwood.”

  “You should,” Mallan countered. “You murdered him in Provo, Utah, on August 8, 1878.”

  “Utah!” Holliday’s eyes held a wicked glint. “I’ve never set foot in Utah! And who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “Deputy Sheriff Mallan.” Mallan cocked the bulldog pistol. “I’d advise you to come along peaceable.”

  “Come along where?”

  “To the police station, where formal charges will be lodged awaiting extradition to Utah.”

  “You’re crazy.” Holliday went white around the mouth. “I’m not going anywhere, especially Utah.”

  “Be warned!” Mallan boomed. “If you resist, I will be forced to shoot you dead where you sit.”

  Holliday hesitated, eyeing the snout of the pistol. Then, with an unintelligible oath, he drew himself up stiffly, hands raised. Mallan patted him down, tossing a Colt sixgun and a hideout stiletto on the table. All business, Mallan next spun him around like a top and shoved him hard.

  “March! And no tricks if you value your life!”

  Holliday marched. On the way past the bar, he gave Starbuck a look of muddled outrage. Starbuck lifted his hands in an elaborate shrug, and looked equally dumbfounded. Then the crowd parted and Mallan hustled his prisoner toward the door.

  Outwardly sober, Starbuck gritted his teeth to keep from laughing. He thought to himself that Mallan had missed his calling. The man was a born stage actor, and a ham to boot. A regular goddamn Edwin Booth!

  “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Horace Griffin pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. “Any chance Earp will run?”

  Starbuck had gone directly from the Criterion to the Wells, Fargo office. He was seated now beside the superintendent’s desk. He pondered the question a moment, then wormed around in his chair and flexed his shoulders.

  “Always a chance,” he conceded. “I’m counting on him to stay put once he hears it’s a Utah warrant. Not very likely he’d connect that to the Arizona business.”

  “And if he does?”

  “Then I’ll stop him,” Starbuck said evenly. “That’s why I’m going to Gunnison.”

  Griffin gave the matter some thought. “There’s still no indication,” he said finally, “as to when we’ll receive the extradition papers from Arizona. It could be tomorrow or it could be a month from now.”

  “I’ll wait,” Starbuck observed stoically. “Holliday’s on ice, and Earp might as well be. Even if he spooks, he won’t get very far.”

  “At this point,” Griffin remarked, watching him closely, “the company would much prefer to see Earp stand trial. The publicity would serve as an excellent object lesson for stage robbers.” He paused, weighing his words. “Don’t kill him unless it’s unavoidable.”

  “That’s the only reason I ever killed anybody.”

  Starbuck rose and the superintendent gravely shook his hand. As he went out the door, Griffin frowned and settled back in his chair. A thought persisted, and he found himself unable to shake it off. He wondered how long Wyatt Earp had to live.

  CHAPTER 19

  The sun was a swollen ball of orange on the western horizon. The evening train from Denver chuffed into the Gunnison station and ground to a halt. The passengers, as usual, were a motley assortment drawn to Colorado’s latest boomtown.

  Starbuck was standing near the depot door. His wait in Gunnison had stretched to almost two weeks, and he was still operating undercover. Coded telegrams from Horace Griffin kept him advised of events at the state capital. Until yesterday, there had been little or no progress. Then a wire notified him that the extradition papers had been delivered to the governor in Denver. Another wire, arriving late this morning, instructed him to meet the evening train. The deciphered message gave him a description, and more importantly, a name. Sheriff Bob Paul of Tucson, Arizona.

  Starbuck waited now under the overhang of the depot roof. The stationmaster was a nodding acquaintance, but he saw no one else who might recognize him. His eyes scanned the passengers debarking the train. Gunnison was growing rapidly, and every train was packed with new arrivals. The mix was generally split between workingmen and rogues. Tonight’s lot was sprinkled with miners and drummers, but the sporting crowd, especially fancy ladies, was well represented. Like every boomtown, the lure was strongest for the most disreputable element. Vice was already the backbone of Gunnison’s commerce.

  One of the last passengers off the train brought Starbuck alert. The man stepped onto the platform and stood looking around. He was of medium height, solidly built, with angular features and a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore a broadcloth coat and a high-crowned Stetson, and he was carrying a battered warbag. Under his coat the bulge of a sixgun was plainly visible. He fitted the description in the telegram perfectly.

  With a casual air, Starbuck moved from underneath the overhang and lit a cheroot. He glanced at the lawman over the flare of the match, and their eyes met. He ducked his chin, indicating Paul was to follow him. Then he turned and walked toward the end of the platform.

  The main street of Gunnison was lined with saloons and stores and several greasy-spoon cafes. The evening crowds were already out in force, and the town hummed with activity. Halfway up the street was the Olympic House, one of three hotels already in operation. Starbuck sauntered along at an unhurried pace, weaving in and out of the throngs jamming the boardwalk. He felt certain Paul would keep him in sight, and he paused only when he reached the hotel. There, he glanced back and saw the lawman a few steps behind. A quick look was exchanged, then he entered the hotel.

  Crossing the lobby, he mounted the stairs to the second floor. A central hallway ran the length of the hotel, and he moved rapidly to his room. He unlocked the door, stepping inside, and waited. The sound of footsteps grew louder, and a moment later Paul entered the room. Starbuck closed the door, locking it with a twist of the key. When he turned, the lawman was watching him with a fixed smile.

  “No offense,” Starbuck told him, “but I’d like to hear your name.”

  “Bob Paul,” Paul said, hand outthrust. “If you’re not Luke Starbuck, we’re both in a lot of trouble.”

  Starbuck shook his hand warmly. “I’m damn glad to meet you. It’s been a long wait.”

  “So I’m told.” Paul tossed his hat and warbag on the bed. “Horace Griffin filled me in on the whole story. He says you’ve been doggin’ Earp since last December.”

  “That’s the way it worked out.”

  “Then you were with him the night he killed Frank Stilwell.”

  “It was more like an execution. Earp never gave him a chance, just cut loose with that shotgun.”

  “He’s bound to hang, then! With you on the witness stand, we’ll have an airtight case.”

  Starbuck waved him to a chair. “What’s the latest on the extradition?”

  “Looks good,” Paul said, seating himself. “I left the papers with the governor’s office yesterday. Griffin s
aid he’d wire us the minute they’re signed.”

  “Why didn’t you wait and bring ’em along?”

  “Politicians aren’t much at keepin’ secrets. Figured I’d come on here, just in case word leaked out to Earp.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Starbuck straddled a chair. “Speaking of politicians, how’d you leave things in Arizona? We heard you and Behan locked horns over who had first dibs on Earp.”

  Paul chuckled softly. “I finally convinced the territorial governor that I had the best case. Behan damn near tore Tombstone apart when he got the word.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Starbuck noted. “Earp made a fool out of him more times than you could count.”

  “Tell me about Earp,” Paul said with a quizzical frown. “What’s his game here in Gunnison?”

  Starbuck gave him a slow, dark smile. “Leopards don’t change their spots. He’s got himself a faro concession at the Tivoli Saloon, and from what I gather, he’s buying property hand over fist. Give him a little time, and he’ll end up the town’s leading citizen.”

  “How about politics?”

  “Same as Tombstone.” Starbuck shook his head ruefully. “Course, you’ve got to give him credit. He sizes things up and then he moves fast. No flies on him!”

  “And folks buy it?” Paul said, troubled. “Don’t they know all the stuff he pulled in Arizona?”

  “Earp’s a smooth article,” Starbuck replied. “He gets close to the right people, and keeps telling them he was framed by Behan because he tried to run the criminal element out of Tombstone. Pretty soon they start believing it.”

  “What do you mean—the right people?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s already in thick with a couple of the big mine owners. That’s what I mean about a leopard. He’s working the same dodge, damn near step-for-step, that he used in Tombstone.”