Shawn Starbuck Double Western 1

by Ray Hogan

“He told me, but you was due to go to work this morning—early, just the same. How the hell you think I can run this place if the crew comes and goes when it damn well pleases?”

  “Would be a problem,” Brock admitted mildly. “You aim to give us a whipping?”

  “Never mind, Pete,” Rutter broke in, dismounting. He shifted his eyes to Shawn. “You’re not much good at taking advice.”

  “Depends on the advice,” Starbuck replied. “I—”

  Gage, red-faced, pushed forward. “We ain’t talking about him! We’re talking about you and that pair of—”

  “I said we was sorry, old man—”

  “Sorry—hell! I’m telling Sam Underwood that he can—”

  “Be telling him a few things myself.”

  “Then you can tell him I said you was fired—the lot of you! I won’t have you around giving the rest of the crew ideas, making them think they ought to be acting like you.”

  Rutter’s gaze settled on the foreman. Behind him Brock and Mysak had dismounted and were watching quietly.

  “Now, we’re trying to get along with you, Gage,” the redhead said, “but you’re making it mighty hard. We aim to do our work, but we just had to pay us a little visit to town, see the elephant and such.”

  “You ain’t ever going to get along with me till you start in doing your work, like you’re supposed to.”

  Rutter nodded. “We’re going to do that, but I was just thinking . . . you hadn’t ought to go jumping all over us like you’re doing. It ain’t being nice to Sam’s friends; and I just might mention to him that he ought to fire you, ‘stead of you firing us.”

  “He won’t have to fire me,” Gage said in an anger-choked voice. “Anytime it’s you calling the shots on this ranch, I quit. Now, you tell that to Sam when you see him!”

  “Just what I’ll do,” the redhead said calmly, and then swung to Starbuck. “You had your warning, so now it’ll be the hard way.”

  Turning on his heel, he walked off, followed by Brock and the glowering Mysak. At the front corral they left their horses, and moved on toward the main house. Gage watched them in fuming silence for a bit, then spun to Shawn.

  “What’s he talking about—you getting your warning, and doing things the hard way?”

  “We had a few words. Gave me notice to ride on.”

  Tom Gage’s fury soared again. “Why, that flapping-jawed jackass—who the hell he think he is spouting off with that kind of talk? I’ll set him—”

  “Don’t bother,” Starbuck said. “Met his kind before, probably run up against plenty just like him by the time I’m ready to die—Means nothing to me.”

  The kitchen door opened and Holly stepped out into the yard. Rufe Mysak slowed, raked her with his eyes, whistled softly. He said something to Rutter who only shook his head and continued on his way. The girl, paying no attention to them, moved farther into the yard, seemingly unaware of Mysak’s persistent stare.

  “Good morning!” she said brightly, walking in front of Shawn. “I hear you’re taking a job with us after all. I’m glad.”

  She gave him a wide smile, hurried on in her light, quick step for the barn where Manuel was leading out Amy Underwood’s horse. Swinging to the saddle, she looked back to Starbuck.

  “Promised Mother I’d take Blanco for a run today. She doesn’t ride him near enough. Be pleased to have you come along.”

  Shawn nodded, touched the brim of his hat politely. “Obliged, but I’m a working hand now. Have to hang around close.”

  Holly tossed her head, swept out of the yard in a hammering of hooves. Tom Gage, his temper cooled, clucked softly.

  “Like I told you, that gal sure has took a shine to you. Why don’t you go on with her? Sam ain’t needing you.”

  “Neither does she—somebody who can only cause her hurt.”

  “Pshaw—that ain’t no way to talk. You’re young. Ought to be thinking about the future.”

  “I’ve got no future—not the kind you’re talking about—until I find Ben. Can’t you figure up a chore or two for me to do?”

  Tom Gage was staring past Shawn toward the house. “Maybe I ain’t the one who’ll be telling anybody what to do around here from now on,” he murmured.

  Starbuck turned. Sam Underwood, with Rutter, Brock and Mysak in tow, was advancing across the hard pack. The rancher’s features were strained, contrasting sharply with the settled, satisfied expression of Guy Rutter.

  “Tom,” Underwood began with no preliminaries. “Rutter tells me you jumped all over him and the boys for just coming in.”

  “You’re damn well right I did!” the old foreman shot back, anger soaring again. “First thing you know the whole crew’ll be thinking they can come and go as they please.”

  “I told you they had my permission to go to Vegas—”

  “Ain’t claiming you didn’t. But they was due back here in time to go to work this morning, same as everybody else.”

  “I didn’t set any time for them to return. Told you that, too.”

  “The hell you did, Sam! You said—”

  “Well, I sure meant to. I’m sorry, Tom. Guess it just slipped my mind. Anyway, it’s all right.”

  “How can it be?” Gage demanded, thoroughly aroused. “You telling me to treat them privileged like, let the rest of the crew think they’re something special, and better’n them?”

  “Not exactly. But for the time being I want to make an exception—”

  “Exception, hell! I’ll tell you what you can do, Sam—you can get yourself another ramrod. I ain’t never run a place favoring some over others, and I ain’t about to start now.”

  Underwood’s face was white, drawn. “Now, hold on. Don’t go off half-cocked.”

  “I’m done gone,” the older man shouted. “I quit. Give me my time and I’ll pull out. Then you can turn the job over to one of your special friends; let him do as he pleases.”

  “Sam,” Mysak said, pushing forward. “I’d be real pleased to take on the job.”

  Underwood flashed the man an angry look, and laid his hand on Gage’s shoulder. Worried lines cut deep into his features.

  “Don’t do this to me. I need you here. Fact is, I couldn’t run this ranch without you.”

  “Then leave me alone, dammit! Keep your nose out of what’s my business.”

  “What I intend to do—just like I always have. Whole thing’s been a mix-up. And you won’t need to worry about these fellows none. They’ll work direct for me. Won’t have anything to do with the rest of the hands.”

  Gage began to simmer down. After a moment he said, “Good enough. You keep them out of my hair, look after them yourself.”

  Underwood’s eyes reflected his relief. Standing behind him Guy Rutter was silent, his features betraying no emotion of any sort. That he had merely wanted to put the old foreman in his place was apparent to Shawn.

  “Then we’ve got it settled,” the rancher said. “It be all right if they stay in the bunkhouse?”

  “Nothing to me long as they mind their manners and keep their lips buttoned up.”

  ‘They’ll do that,” Underwood said with a sidelong glance at the three men.

  Guy Rutter shrugged disinterestedly. Mysak winked broadly at Pete Brock. The rancher swung to face Starbuck.

  “Got an errand for you. Something’s come up, important that I get a letter quick to my partner in the bank, Ira Cameron. You be able to ride in an hour or so?”

  “Whenever you say,” Shawn replied, pleased that at last he had something to do.

  Underwood deliberately turned his back to the other men, drew Starbuck aside. “Letter’s more important than you might think,” he said in a hushed, confidential way. “Don’t be afraid to use that gun of yours getting it there—if need be.”

  Shawn signified his understanding. Guy Rutter was watching narrowly, he noted, a dark frown on his ruddy face.

  “Be no hurry for you to return,” Underwood said, his voice lifting to normal level again. “St
ay the night, head home in the morning. Thing I’m interested in is that letter being put in Cameron’s hands today.”

  Starbuck again nodded. A night in the settlement would be a welcome treat. A drink or two in one of the saloons, a few hands of cards—a man missed those things when he was on the trail day after day.

  “Get my horse saddled,” he said, turning for the corral.

  Underwood also swung about, started for the house, “Be an hour or so. I’ll sing out when I’m ready.”

  Rutter, with Brock and Mysak crowded up close to him, stood for a time watching the rancher move off, and then with a hard glance at Starbuck, headed for the bunkhouse. At once Tom Gage crossed to where Shawn was pulling tight a cinch.

  “I ain’t sure,” the old foreman said, his eyes on the three men, “just what’s going on around here, but you keep your eyes peeled while you’re making that ride.”

  Shawn paused. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I wouldn’t trust them three saddle warmers half as far as I could throw a cow barn—especially after that warning Rutter gave you.”

  “Way I feel about them,” Starbuck said. “I’ll be watching—going and coming.”

  Eleven

  Sam Underwood stood at the rear window that overlooked the yard and watched Guy Rutter, accompanied by Brock and Rufe Mysak, ride off.

  A feeling of satisfaction flowed through him. They were taking the bait he’d so carefully dangled in front of them, were doing exactly as he had hoped. Starbuck had been gone much less than an hour and already they were setting out to follow.

  He had been certain they would. Rutter had a devious, suspicious mind and the letter—actually no more than some mortgage papers he’d brought home to read over and sign—would represent a possible double cross and a threat to the success of the bank holdup they planned.

  Rutter would think he was tipping off Ira Cameron, instructing him to call in the sheriff, set up an ambush inside the building. He’d not rest now until he got the letter in his hands, examined it and made sure.

  That wouldn’t be easy to accomplish. Starbuck, whom he’d impressed with the importance of the envelope and the need for delivering it at any and all costs, was not the sort to fail a trust; he’d fight. Rutter, even aided by Brock and the thick-skulled Mysak would be no match for an expert gunslinger like him.

  Thus it would come down to a shootout. Rutter, Brock and Mysak were bound to get the worst of it. He’d not be surprised if at least two of them ended up dead—and that was exactly what Sam Underwood wanted; two of them, or even one out of the picture, and there’d be no bank robbery. One man could not possibly pull off the job. Two, perhaps, but the risk would be great, and Rutter, should he be one of those still alive, wasn’t likely to take the chance.

  He need not fear reprisal by way of the “girl” and the “letter” the three had mentioned, if indeed such a girl and such a letter recounting the affair at Medford’s Crossing existed. According to Rutter she’d been directed to hand the confession over to the law if there proved to be a trap awaiting them when the robbery was attempted. An unfortunate encounter with a gunman on the trail during which Rutter and the others got themselves shot to hell before any robbery attempt could hardly apply to the instructions that had been given her.

  And by then he’d have had time to do a little investigating himself, learn who the girl was, and if there was a letter, get it by paying her off. Women of the sort Rutter would associate with always had a price, particularly when the man she’d made a deal with and expected a bonus of cash from was dead or wounded and unable to pay.

  He’d worked it out carefully, thought it through to the end. Rutter and his buckos would discover they’d underestimated him, that they’d picked the wrong man to squeeze down on, try to blackmail. Hell, he hadn’t got where he was by being stupid.

  He hadn’t been too obvious, not with either Starbuck or Rutter. He’d shown just enough secrecy there in the yard to pique Rutter, arouse his suspicions—and just the right amount of seriousness where Starbuck was concerned to impress him with the importance of fighting for the letter, if need be.

  He would have liked to bring Starbuck a bit deeper into his scheme, actually warn him about Rutter, but that might have spoiled the whole thing. It was better if it all came off unexpectedly; a sudden attack by the three men, the quick and violent reaction of Starbuck protecting a most valuable envelope entrusted to his care. That’s what he counted on. He did hope Starbuck came out of it all right, though. He liked the young man.

  He reckoned he didn’t have to worry about Shawn Starbuck, however. He could take care of himself. One look into those cool, gray eyes, or at the way he handled himself even when the odds were all wrong, gave one the idea that he’d been down the road plenty and there was damned little that could faze him. Starbuck would come out on top—maybe with a bullet hole or two—but he’d make it, and he’d get the job done.

  Regardless, in Sam Underwood’s mind the result justified the means. He could not, under any circumstances permit anything to stand in the way of getting what he desired most—the governorship of the Territory. The power and prestige that came with it meant everything to him and his family, as well as to a considerable number of fellow ranchers, businessmen and certain important politicians.

  Actually, when you viewed it objectively, he would be breaking faith, letting them down if he didn’t take drastic steps to block off any and all threats to the fulfillment of his plans. They were depending upon him, basing their futures on what he could do for them once he attained the Governor’s Palace. It would be criminal to allow a ghost out of the past to wreck their hopes.

  Underwood grinned wryly. He could expect some violent repercussions from Starbuck when it was all over and done with. The tall stranger had guessed that all was not rosy between him and his army pals. His meaning had been clear when he asked if there was anyone in particular he should keep an eye open for—and he had meant Guy Rutter, Mysak and Brock. He was glad he’d had the presence of mind to deny any and all enemies.

  Well, he’d play it that way right through to the finish. He’d make Starbuck—.assuming he survived the trap Rutter and the others were certain to lay for him once they’d swung by and gotten ahead—believe that he had no idea of their intentions; that, as far as he was concerned, they were old, trusted friends and had fooled him completely.

  Starbuck would believe it—or possibly, he would not since he wasn’t the kind to be fooled easily; but if he didn’t swallow the explanation—what of it? There was absolutely nothing he could do about anything.

  Motion at the far side of the yard drew Underwood’s attention. Tom Gage, coming in from the range where he’d been looking things over, no doubt. It had been touch and go with Tom there for a bit. For a few moments he thought he’d lost him—and that would have posed a serious problem.

  As long as Tom Gage was around to run Underwood, he had no worries as far as the ranch was concerned. In fact, and he had freely admitted such to everyone, he’d realized a long time ago that he couldn’t have made it to the top of the heap without the help of the crusty old cowman.

  He must keep Tom satisfied and happy, humor him along, no matter what it took. Only then could he feel secure and know, after he became governor, that the ranch was not going to pot for lack of management.

  But he guessed things were all right with the old foreman now. He’d cooled off when it appeared he was to have his way, and that there’d be no more interference from anyone. He’d not allow an explosive situation like that to arise again—that was for sure.

  Underwood watched Gage ride up to the corrals, halt and sit quietly staring at the horses in the front enclosure. The old man was sharp. Damned little got by him. He was noticing now the absence of the horses Rutter, Brock and Mysak used. He wouldn’t guess, though, that the three men had ridden out to follow Starbuck—and meet their doom. He’d have no reason to think of such; he’d simply assume they were off somewhere, and forget
it.

  Taking a deep, satisfied breath, Sam Underwood looked off across the yard to the low hills beyond and smiled contentedly while through his mind passed this thought: Mr. Governor-to-be, you’ve done yourself proud, climbing out of that mess. By the time this day’s done you can forget Guy Rutter and Pete Brock and Rufe Mysak and Medford’s Crossing, and start figuring who you’re going to favor with all those fat appointments you’ll be passing out after you’re sworn in. Got to hand them over to those who can do you the most good ... You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. It’s a good rule.

  “Samuel. . . .”

  Amy Underwood’s voice reached him from an adjoining room. She always used his full name although he preferred the diminutive. Her genteel Southern upbringing, he supposed. But it did sound a bit more dignified and formal. Maybe, after the inauguration, he’d sort of start using it.

  “Samuel?” Amy said again.

  “Right here.”

  “I told Holly to invite the Camerons over for dinner Sunday. She’ll stay over and ride back with them.”

  A frown clouded Underwood’s face as he pivoted on a heel slowly. “Holly—did she go to Vegas?”

  “Yes. Was there something you wanted?”

  A great fear was blossoming within the rancher. In a long stride he crossed the room to the connecting doorway.

  “When did she leave?” he asked in a breathless voice.

  Amy, comfortable in her pink velour rocker, looked up from her tatting. “An hour or so ago. That new man you hired was riding in—some business of yours, Holly said, and—”

  “Starbuck? Did she go with Starbuck?”

  “Why, yes, that’s the name she mentioned. She had some shopping to do, asked if it would be all right to go with him. I told her yes, of course.”

  Sam Underwood stood frozen, eyes bright with shock, lower jaw sagging. Amy, a look of concern covering her face, rose, moved anxiously to his side.

  “Wasn’t it all right? Both you and Tom seemed to think this Starbuck is a fine, young man.”

  “Holly—oh, my God!” Underwood muttered as visions of what awaited her on the trail rocked through his mind.