Shawn Starbuck Double Western 1

by Ray Hogan

  The rancher produced a key and opened the door; they entered. The building smelled dry, and the heat trapped within its walls was stifling. Closing and locking the panel, Underwood moved forward into a small, cleared area in which were two desks and several chairs.

  In the dim light filtering through the window that faced the street, Starbuck could see the teller’s cage to his right; he saw that he was behind the counter where Ira Cameron had stood when he had delivered Underwood’s letter.

  “Where’s the safe?” he asked in a low voice.

  The rancher crossed to a door beyond Cameron’s desk. It appeared to be the entrance to a closet but when he drew it open, the black, iron face of a vault was visible.

  “They’ll be using blasting powder on that,” Starbuck commented.

  “What they figure to do. Mysak’s sort of an expert on it. Was his job in the war—blowing up bridges and houses—things like that. He’ll manage it easy.”

  And being a man experienced with explosives it was likely no one would hear it, Shawn thought. The correct amount of powder affixed to the safe’s knob, the door quickly closed and buttressed with a desk, and the noise would be so effectively muffled that no one would be aware of what was taking place.

  Starbuck looked more closely at the furnishings, now becoming distinct as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. He pointed to a short counter jutting off at right angles to the teller’s barred compartment.

  “One of us can hide behind that. Other ought to be on the opposite side of the room. They’ll gather in front of the safe. We can cover them from two sides.”

  “Good,” Underwood said, and took up a position back of the counter.

  Shawn moved to the far side of the area. There was nothing similar there to employ as cover, and dragging one of the desks around until it faced the safe closet, he crouched behind it. He could watch both front and rear entrances as well as the vault from that point.

  Hunkered in the darkness, he tried to figure how the outlaws would gain entry and prepare himself accordingly. It wasn’t likely they would attempt to break through the front. Although most of Las Vegas seemed to be indoors, either in the saloons or their homes, a few persons were strolling along the sidewalks, and the crash of breaking glass would certainly draw attention.

  It was logical to assume Rutter and his friends would come in from the rear, prying the thick panel from its hinges, or possibly daring to use an axe. They’d run no great risk, working from the alley where they would certainly never be seen and very probably not heard.

  The problem settled in his mind, Shawn drew his revolver, checked its loads. There should be no cause to use it unless the men proved to be fools, tried to fight. And they weren’t likely to do that—not with two guns pinning them down from opposite sides, trapping them in what could be a murderous cross-fire.

  Starbuck raised himself partly, looked toward Underwood. “When you see me stand up—do the same,” he called softly. “Let them know quick they’re covered by the two of us.”

  “I’ll be ready,” the rancher replied.

  Keeping his weapon in hand, Shawn leaned back against the wall, taking the strain off his leg muscles which were beginning to ache from the squatting position he was forced to assume. Noise from the Gold Dollar, almost directly across the street, seeped into the darkened room in steady waves, filling it with muted shouts, laughter, the dull thump of a piano.. . .

  Starbuck tensed. There was a sound at the rear door. He braced himself, planting his feet squarely that he might rise swiftly and on balance. A ripple of surprise rolled through him. A key had grated in the lock. The faint squeak of hinges sounded and then came a stir of fresh, cool air as the panel swung open.

  A key!

  There was only one answer for that. Underwood had given it to them—forced to, he’d claim. Disgust curled Starbuck’s lips. The rancher might as well have gone all the way—opened the safe and had the money ready for them.

  A faint scuffing of boots and the thud of heels reached him. Rutter, Brock and Mysak, the latter two carrying sacks of some sort, were suddenly in the center of the room. They tarried a moment there, then crossed to the door behind Cameron’s desk. Rutter opened it wide, stepped back, made a sweeping motion with his arm.

  “Get at it, Rufe.”

  The thick-bodied man dropped to a crouch before the dully gleaming iron panel with its nickeled trimming. He examined the knob and handle briefly.

  “Going to be easy,” he said.

  “What I told you, wasn’t it?” Rutter said in a quick, impatient way. “Now, we got everything straight? Soon’s that safe’s open, you and Pete grab all the money you can find, stuff it into the bag. I’ll keep standing watch close to the window, keep an eye peeled in case somebody heard the powder going off.”

  “You still want to head straight for Underwood’s instead of north to Denver?” Brock asked.

  “Underwood’s,” Rutter said. “Be the smartest move. We head for Denver we could run into the law—this town’s got a telegraph office. Best we do like we planned, make out we’re working for Sam.”

  “Save your breath,” Starbuck said, rising to his full height from behind the desk. “You’re going nowhere. Keep your hands up—high, so I can see them—”

  Brock was the one to make the first wrong move. He yelled something, dodged to one side, his pistol shattering the heat-laden hush. Shawn drove a bullet at the outlaw’s shifting shadow, triggered another at Mysak, leveling down at him.

  “Open up!” he yelled to Underwood.

  Mysak went down in a heap, and then the room was in a haze of boiling smoke. Shawn could locate neither Brock nor Rutter, but they had him placed. Two more shots blasted deafeningly in the room. Leaden slugs splintered the surface of the desk back of which he crouched.

  Why the hell didn’t Underwood give him some help? A cross fire would force the men to surrender immediately.

  One thing certain—he couldn’t stay where he was. He doubted they could see him anymore than he could locate them in the swirling murk, but they did have his position spotted and eventually one of them would get lucky. Bent low, under the thick-layered cover of smoke, he lunged across the intervening space to the counter where Sam Underwood had taken a stand. The rancher, pistol in hand, saw him, jerked back.

  “No!” he cried in a hoarse whisper. “You’ll draw their fire. Get away—”

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Starbuck demanded in a savage voice. “Shoot—dammit! We’d had them cold if you’d shown yourself.”

  “I—I can’t,” Underwood moaned, shaking his head. “Too much at stake—to lose ... Can’t risk it … All up to you. ...”

  A dark shape loomed up in the haze directly in front of the counter. A gun blossomed bright orange in the darkness and a hot iron seared across Shawn’s left wrist. He fired instinctively. Pete Brock yelled in pain and staggered. Reflex action triggered the weapon clutched in his hand twice, sent dual bullets smashing into the window of the bank. The glass fell to the floor with a loud crash.

  Starbuck, belly flat, crawled clear of the counter and the cringing Sam Underwood. Rutter was somewhere in the gloom. His hand struck something yielding—Brock’s lifeless body. Groping about, he found the pistol. Picking it up, he tossed it into a far corner.

  Instantly a gun blazed from the shelter of the closet in which stood the safe. Shawn’s answering shot followed so quickly it was like an echo.

  “Don’t shoot—I’m hit!” Rutter’s voice was high pitched, laced with fear and pain.

  ‘Throw your gun through the window,” Starbuck ordered. “Then walk out where I can see you

  There was a thud as Rutter’s pistol struck the wall below the opening of jagged glass, dropped to the floor. A moment later the outlaw staggered into view, one hand clutched to his side.

  “I’ll take care of him.” Underwood’s husky voice was strong at Starbuck’s elbow. “Get over to the saloon and find that woman. Got to have that letter.�
��

  Several dim shapes in the street were moving cautiously toward the front of the bank, evidently not sure yet that it was safe to draw near.

  “What difference does that damned letter make now?” Starbuck snarled. The rancher’s courage had returned with amazing swiftness. “You’re telling the whole thing to the sheriff, anyway.”

  “Just it,” Underwood said in an urgent tone. “Want to do the telling myself. Don’t want him finding out that way.”

  Shawn was silent for a moment. Then, “Probably would be better. If I see the sheriff out there, I’ll send him in.”

  “Go out the back,” Underwood said hastily as Starbuck moved toward the opening in the window. “Some fool might take you for a holdup man and shoot you.”

  Shawn nodded, wheeled about.

  “Don’t lose time,” the rancher called after him. “Be like her to make a run for the sheriff’s office minute she hears what happened.”

  Starbuck made no reply, simply turned when he stepped into the alley, and trotted for the street.

  Eighteen

  As Starbuck hurried along the narrow passageway that separated the bank from its adjacent neighbor, two quick gunshots echoed across the clamor of the night. He gave that brief wonder, turned into the street, and strode for the brightly lit front of the Gold Dollar.

  Men were crowding past the batwings, collecting on the porch, yelling questions at those converging gingerly on the bank. Others were running up from different points along the roadway, and somewhere a voice was shouting, “Abrams! Anybody seen Abrams around?”

  Shawn stepped up onto the gallery, bulled his way against the current and entered the saloon. Moving to one side, he swung his glance around the room in search of Vida. He located her at a corner table, seemingly undisturbed by the mounting excitement. A puncher, very drunk, was beside her.

  Crossing the littered area in long strides, Starbuck halted before her. “Upstairs,” he said gruffly, jerking his thumb toward the second floor.

  Vida stared at him dully from her lifeless eyes. The puncher stirred, raised his head, attempted to focus his gaze on Shawn. Failing, he lapsed again into a state of semi consciousness. The woman shrugged, glanced at her partner.

  “Why not?” she muttered thickly. “Your money’s good as his.”

  Rising, she led the way across the saloon dance floor, up the stairs to the corridor, and on to her room. Once inside, Starbuck closed the door, turned the key. Vida, a fixed smile on her slack lips, wheeled expectantly, faced him.

  “Seen you before, cowboy,” she began. “You ain’t never been—”

  Starbuck’s hard words cut her off. “I want that letter Rutter gave you.”

  Life stirred in her eyes. A frown knotted her brow as the lines in her face cut deeper. Abruptly her mouth fell open. She drew back a step.

  “You’re the one that come busting in here, raising hell with—”

  “Where’s that letter?”

  A coyness slipped into her. She was drunk but not so far gone as to have lost her slyness.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. . . .”

  Starbuck seized her arm, shook her roughly. A comb fell from her hair, loosening several thick strands that spilled down around her shoulders.

  “The hell you don’t! I’m giving you one minute to hand over that letter or I’m taking this room apart—you along with it.”

  Vida looked down. “I ain’t got no letter,” she muttered sullenly.

  “Don’t tell me that. Rutter said he gave it to you—told you to take it to the sheriff if he didn’t make it back. He won’t. He’s shot up plenty bad. Brock and Mysak are dead. You want to stay out of trouble, you’ll fork it over—quick.”

  Vida was staring at him woodenly. “Dead?”

  “All but Rutter. He’ll live to go to jail—maybe hang.”

  She pulled back further, sat down on the creaky bed, eyes fixed on the tattered, faded paper covering the wall.

  “Told him it wouldn’t work. Told him,” she mumbled.

  Shawn grasped her shoulder, again shook her. “That letter—where is it?”

  A hardness wiped away the slack in her face as she looked up. “How much it worth to you?”

  “Not a cent. Means nothing to me. I’m here for somebody else.”

  There was a loud burst of cheers down in the saloon, more in the street. Horses pounded up, stopped.

  “You’re from that rich sonofabitch who’s wanting to be the governor—that’s who you’re from. Ought to be worth a-plenty to him, the way Guy talked.”

  “Maybe it is. Up to him to decide that—and you can do your horse trading with him later. Right now I want that envelope.”

  “And trust him to pay me later? No, sir, not me! They’re the worst kind—them rich ones. Bastards are always out to skin you. You go get him—”

  Shawn stepped in close, caught the woman’s dress by its low neckline, drew it taut.

  “Expect I know where you’re hiding it. You want me to rip off this rag, get it myself?”

  Vida glared at him angrily, shook her head. “All right,” she said, pushing his hand away. “You can have the goddam thing.”

  Thrusting her fingers deep into the cleavage between her ample breasts, she produced a folded envelope, passed it to him. Shawn glanced at the writing on its front. It was addressed simply: U.S. Marshal or sheriff. As Underwood had predicted, Guy Rutter had not been bluffing.

  Tucking the letter inside his shirt, he turned for the door. Vida’s coarse voice lashed out at him.

  “You tell that bastard I’m looking for him to pay me for that—you hear?”

  Starbuck jerked the door back, said, “I’ll tell him,” and halted. The drunk Vida had been entertaining at the table was just reaching for the knob. Off balance, he swayed forward, caught himself by clutching the door frame.

  “Say—where—” he began protestingly.

  “She’s all yours, friend,” Shawn said, and taking the man by the shoulders, spun him into the room.

  He walked the length of the corridor, went down the stairs. There appeared to be more of a crowd inside the saloon now than before, most of which was clustered about a man who was speaking excitedly.

  “Was three of them. . . .” Starbuck caught the words as he drew abreast the tightly packed group. “Was all set to blast the door off’n the safe. Bag of powder’s laying right there.”

  “And Sam got them all?”

  “Every cussed one of them. Seems he just happened by, seen them moving around inside, so he slips in the back way and throws down on them. Well, they decided to fight it out—and they sure got themselves into a dandy. Sam nailed all of them.”

  Shawn had come to a full stop. Sam got all of them! The rancher was taking credit for the whole affair, but more than that—it sounded as if Rutter also was dead. Suddenly the meaning of the two gunshots he’d heard became clear to Starbuck. Underwood had shot him. Either Rutter had attempted to escape—or had been cut down in cold blood.

  Bitterness filled Shawn’s mouth. If that was it, then Sam Underwood had done it for one reason only—to silence Rutter to prevent his telling of the past. He swore silently. He’d been played for a fool again—and by the same man! The rancher had never intended going to the sheriff, making a clean breast of the past; he’d only wanted to get the three out of the way, and had persuaded him to help on the strength of a promise.

  He’d been a fool. He should have realized why Underwood was so insistent that he leave the bank after the shooting; he’d made it appear he was anxious to get his hands on the letter Rutter had written. Undoubtedly he was, but he was more interested in being left alone with the wounded outlaw.

  And the letter ...Starbuck reached into his shirt, felt it with his fingers as he continued on toward the doorway. Should he turn it over to the law? He stood there on the saloon porch deliberating the idea as commotion and noise continued to claim the street.

  Several carriages had arrived. Spotted
among the shifting throng were several soldiers. Lamps had been lighted inside the bank and Shawn could see a considerable number of persons had gathered there.

  Maybe it wasn’t exactly the way he’d figured; maybe he was jumping to conclusions too fast—and he should give Underwood the benefit of the doubt. It was possible Rutter had tried to escape and the rancher had been forced to kill him—just as it was also possible the man in the saloon had gotten some of his facts garbled in that he had given Sam Underwood full and solitary credit for preventing the robbery.

  He reckoned he’d better hear things firsthand before he started condemning Underwood, and made any rash decisions as to the letter.

  Descending the gallery, he waded through the milling crowd and worked his way toward the bank. Onlookers were ten deep in front of the shattered window, and he veered aside, moved back to the passageway he had used earlier.

  Turning into it, he gained the alley. It was deserted, and cutting left he made his way to the rear entrance to the bank. A figure stepped from the shadows just within the doorway, barred his progress; a small, thin man with a rifle and wearing a deputy’s star.

  “Where you think you’re going?” he demanded, lifting his weapon.

  “Inside,” Starbuck answered, faintly angered.

  “Like hell you are. Ain’t nobody going—”

  “I’m with Sam Underwood. Name’s Starbuck.”

  The deputy half turned, yelled, “Mr. Underwood, man back here named Starbuck. Says he’s with you.”

  A lull in the drone of conversation settled over the room at the lawman’s call. Shawn saw the rancher look back, make an indifferent gesture.

  “It’s all right, Harvey. He’s one of my hired hands.”

  The deputy pulled back. Starbuck walked toward the rancher and the group clustered around him. Holly was there, along with a younger girl and an elderly woman. The Camerons, he supposed. The banker himself was near the doorway, holding the panel open for several men who were carrying out the bodies of the outlaws.